Run This Way Forever
by The Noble Rot
Summary: A dying Raistlin and his companion Dalamar undertake a journey to find one Mettamoon, rumored to be the most powerful mage in existence. Drama, passion, suspense, and bloodshed to follow.
1. Searching

Nighttime has a way of imposing its gloom upon everything it touches. Like a living thing, the shadows slithered through the boles of the wet birch trees, turning brilliant yellowed leaves and emerald grass and white bark to varying shades of grey. Raistlin knew the dark...knew it better than he knew the light...but still the transition always fascinated him.

Boundaries, between-times, twilight and the blue hours before dawn brought him some small amount of pleasure. Perhaps it was a throwback to the times when his robes had been red, when balance and neutrality had seemed the best road. Before the black velvet caressed his ankles, before the white hair hung in gleaming waves around a haunted, haunting golden face. Before the darkness had welled up from some black pool beneath the surface of coherent thought and wetted his lips with forbidden wisdom.

"Dark surroundings for dark business." he whispered aloud to the growing night.

Beside him the roan mare whickered softly in response to his voice, shifting her weight from one side to the other. Absently, he reached out and ran an elegant hand down the length of her soft nose.

"Shalafi?"

"I am here, Dalamar. Beside the blueberry thicket."

The dark elf came round the side of the spongy green and blue bush, relief at locating his master evident in his dark eyes.

"I have found the passageway. It was precisely where you predicted it would be. Shall we go, then?"

"Of course. Free the horse, she should not travel to such a place."

"But Master, how will we transport our belongings?"

"We will have no need of any but the most basic supplies where we are going, Dalamar. Those you shall carry. I have precious little strength left, certainly not enough to waste in toting a heavy bag."

Dalamar wordlessly unbuckled the packs from the mare's back, removing her halter and bit and tossing them into the brush. He patted her rump gently, compelling her to move slowly out into the peaceful night and away from them. He knelt down on the carpet of shed leaves and began to pick through the sack of spell books, rations, cloaks, medicines, and the like.

"Is the pain very bad, Master?" he finally asked. Raistlin sighed and shook his head once quickly, like a large cat flicking away a fly.

"It is tolerable now, but fast becoming more than I can bear. I shall manage for as long as I am able. I tell you, my old friend. It will not be much longer."

"I would carry you, Shalafi..."

"You will not. You have not rested soundly since we set out two months ago, and your constant worrying over me like a mother hen is becoming bothersome. I will live long enough, long enough for this last journey."

Dalamar, well used to his teacher's bitterness, took no affront to the sharp words. When Raistlin began walking again, determined and slow, the dark elf simply fell into step behind him, carrying the most precious of the spell books, the medicinal herbs that would keep his dark friend from death a little while longer. It caused him a brief stab of pain, the thought that this would be the last time the two men would walk together. Caramon should be here...

But Caramon was dead. Caramon and his laughing wife with the gentle eyes. Sensual Kitiara with her raven curls and that infectious crooked smile. They were all dead. All dead and rotting away to nothing in the rocky ground, long-gone memories of a humanity that Raistlin and Dalamar were no longer a part of.

Now all that remained was this night, this journey to a realm that the dark mage and his apprentice had only guessed at. It was the last hope for power, for life, for a continuation of the work that Raistlin...and even Dalamar to an extent...had given the better part of their lives for.

There was said to be a place, another world where there dwelt the oldest and most powerful mage ever to have existed. A relic of the Old Days before time began to be recorded.

His name was Mettamoon, and he was said to be of the undead. Raistlin had come upon an ancient tome, falling to pieces and weathered almost beyond recognition, bearing the name Mettamoon in gold leaf down the arcane binding. Within were some of the most powerful spells, the most profound writings, that had ever been seen in all of Krynn. And so, feeling the illness within him finally begin to do what it had threatened from the start; that is, painfully end his life, Raistlin had confided his intention of finding the ancient mage before death. To his extreme satisfaction, Dalamar had at once volunteered to help him get there. After two months of wearying, endless search, the two men had come upon a possible portal to the world whereupon the magic user Mettamoon lived.

Neither one knew what to expect, but they faced their future with as much bravery and stoicism as they had faced their past.


	2. Entering the Abyss

The entrance looked exactly like the rain-wet surroundings, a circle of ancient stones covered in moss and sickly glowing lichen. Raistlin bent down over the place, his keen eyes picking out the subtle electric threads of magical energy that leaped almost imperceptibly between the stones.

"This is the place, Dalamar. Come here, I am far too weakened to open the doorway myself."

It was obvious that speaking these words pained him, that admitting his inability to handle the spell alone caused him more suffering even than the agony in his chest. He dissolved into a coughing fit as his apprentice came forward to take his shoulder, keeping him from falling to his knees in the mud. Bright blood stained Raistlin's thin lips, and Dalamar gently wiped it away with a cloth, reverence and mercy and a tenderness that he had not known until these last few days plain on his face. He couldn't quite explain the change that had come over him, nor did he care to. But when night fell and the travellers stopped to rest, Dalamar always stood guard over his master, watching the mage's gaunt face as he slept, worried always that the last and most-respected person left alive in his life would die and abandon him.

"Shalafi, should you not rest a while before attempting to enter the gate with me?"

Raistlin shook his head, still coughing.

"C-cannot...risk...w-waiting..."

"Yes, master. I understand." Dalamar helped Raistlin to straighten up, then moved into the center of the ring of stones. It was an intricate spell he was about to perform, and a single misstep could be the destruction of the two men.

He reached into his voluminous pockets, pulling out the components he required while Raistlin watched on with weary approval. Dalamar trusted to his skill, born as it was of years of training at the oftentimes ruthless hand of his master. Within moments a soft shimmer passed through the glade and away over the bushes. The night held its breath, and even the crickets stilled their chorus.

"Softly now..." Raistlin breathed, leaning heavily on his staff. His eyes were lit with a strange fire, a look of eagerness on his tired face. Dalamar raised his hands, scattering a handful of precious Silverthorne berries taken with great pain from the other realm long ago. A touch of something to reach out to the place they wished to go, the elements exciting themselves into a glowing frenzy. Anyone standing near would have thought it strange to see two men in black robes leaning over a ring of moldy stones in the wavering moonlight. But there was no one left to see. No eyes to behold the spectacle, the final effort of a dying mage and his faithful servant to save themselves from the end.

The end.

The end had come on the wings of a plague that turned flesh green with rot and caused hair to fall out in clumps. Dalamar had been spared only through some fluke, some aberration within his genetic line that caused an immunity to the virus that carried the horrible sickness.

Raistlin's glorious inner power kept him alive when all others fell. Dalamar had watched with his own eyes as Raistlin tended to his dying brother, his sister-in-law, their children. It had been an odd sight. Raistlin, the lines of bitterness and fatigue softening around his eyes as he sponged the pus from Caramon's sores, helped Tika to sit up and drink soup. As he bathed them, thoroughly and respectfully, and held Tika in his thin arms that final awful night when Caramon died and she could not stop wailing, wailing, wailing until she joined her beloved husband in death. Raistlin showed himself to be in possession of an inner strength that defied reason, an iron core of compassion and gentleness and willpower that had only ever been used in the pursuit of magic before. How Tika clung to him in the end, her tears flowing like the rainwater down the windowpane outside, her head against his chest as she told him how grateful she was, how wrong she had been to treat him with disdain before, how much Caramon had loved him! And Raistlin - strong, bitter, angry, powerful Raistlin - told her that the world beyond death was more beautiful than she could possibly imagine and she must not be afraid.

"Will Caramon be there, Raist?"

"My...my brother belongs there. If anyone deserves such a resting place, it is he."

Dalamar didn't know what to say. He was terribly uncomfortable with human emotions, especially those dealing with death. He'd gone outside to dig another grave for the woman in Raistlin's arms. As far as he was concerned tales of the afterlife were rot, as much rot as Tika would be in a month. When the body died, that was that. But let her have her illusions, if it made the prospect of the long dark bearable.

A soft sizzling sound, like water thrown into a hot pan, signaled the completion of the spell. Dalamar, roused from his sad recollections, carefully stepped from the circle and picked up the bags again. Leaning on his staff, Raistlin moved forward to join him at the edge of the ever-widening crack of light in the earth.

"Do you know what we will find in this place, master?"

"I know only that the Abyssal plane is the only path to the realm we seek. We must be cautious...it is a place wherein I have made a great many acquaintances over the long years whom I have no wish to encounter."

Dalamar hid a small smile at the understatement. The torments Raistlin had endured in the place they were about to pass through were the stuff of legend. But unlike most legends, they were actually true.

A moment passed, a long moment that weighed heavy in the silence as both men watched the gate opening beneath them. When it had widened enough to allow him to pass, Dalamar took the lead. Raistlin followed closely, his weariness making him stumble slightly at the edge of the portal. It felt strange, the sliding between realities. Like slipping into a very cold bath when your body was overheated. The transition took no time at all, yet still managed to feel like an eternity. They emerged, panting and winded, into a featureless gray landscape with dead trees reaching up to meet the dead sky.

"Are you all right, Shalafi?"

Raistlin said nothing, his eyes scanning the horizon. This was the part he'd dreaded, the leaving behind a land of relative safety for an uncertain plane of misery. Were demons susceptible to plague?

"Master, we should move. Unless you are in need of rest."

"I will manage, Dalamar. Please do not trouble yourself." But as he attempted to take another step, his knees gave out and he fell to the ground, striking his head against a stone and gashing it open.

"Master!" Dalamar was beside him in a moment, worry plain in his eyes. With effort, Raistlin climbed to his feet again, wiping the blood from his golden face with a shaking hand.

"I am well, curse you! Give me room to breath!"

He was more venomous than he really meant to be, the pain in his chest becoming worse with every passing moment. Dalamar said nothing in response to the caustic reprimand. He walked a step behind in silence for a time, watching the drab horizon for any sign of change. The ground felt hot, the air stiflingly stale and miserable.

Footstep after footstep, no sound but their labored breathing, the sweat running into their eyes, the crunch of fine gray sand beneath them. The Abyss was huge, huge beyond comprehension. Even Raistlin, for all his wandering and dark exploration, had never seen it all. This place that they were in now was not one he knew, and the uncertainty distracted him. Past experiences here loomed uncomfortably large in his mind, but he brushed the horrors aside as though they were the gossamer shreds of a nightmare chased away by morning. Now was not the time for giving in to fear. Now was the time for courage, and the last push.


	3. Guidance

They'd been walking for hours, the light never changing, the temperature steady and stifling. Dalamar did not know what was worse; the creatures that he feared running into or the anticipation of that meeting. He felt light-headed and insubstantial, as though the slightest breeze would sweep him away. And he knew that Raistlin, despite his facade, was even weaker. In a fight they would be useless.

"Do not worry yourself, Dalamar," Raistlin said wearily, reading his thoughts, "My reputation in this place ought to be enough to ward off most who mean us harm."

It was a valid point, but somehow Dalamar seriously doubted whether reputation alone would be enough.

They walked on and on, saying very little to one another, each one consumed with his own dark thoughts. The sand beneath their feet gave way to dirt, then to a soft gray grass. The change in vegetation brought them no comfort...it was not a comforting sight in the least. The dead trees became more frequent, their twisted branches reaching toward a lightless sky in a gesture of seeming supplication. Dalamar wondered whether they had ever been alive, if the Abyss had ever been green and verdant before this landscape of sorrow and loneliness grew to cover over everything.

"Master, how are you feeling?" Dalamar asked some time later.

"Like the trees, I think." Raistlin said softly. He looked around him, surveying the horizon. Suddenly he went rigid, eyes fixed on a spot behind Dalamar's left shoulder.

"I think, my friend, that the situation is about to become a great deal more complicated."

The hair on the nape of Dalamar's neck began to rise at the tone in his Master's voice. He turned to look, anticipation tightening in his chest. A black smudge in the distance was moving towards them. It took Dalamar a full minute to see that it was no demon, but a woman. Breath came slamming back into his lungs, and he realized that he had been holding it.

A woman.

In the Abyss, no less. Whatever or whomever she was, her presence here - unmolested and without an escort - was a deeply unsettling sight.

A lone, unharmed woman with black hair and a black raiment, skin pale as a scar, eyes twin holes of suffocation in a perfect porcelain face. Raistlin fidgeted slightly beside him, and Dalamar's fear vanished in a rush of protectiveness. In his weakened condition, Raistlin was in no state to repel the barbs of a demi-goddess, demoness, succubus, or even a particularly bad-tempered mage who'd somehow managed to find her way Below. His hand went to the handle of the dagger he kept in his belt, the other hand reaching into a pouch to grasp a handful of sleeping powder. If he had to, he was more than willing to die in defense of his Master. But Raistlin laid a hand on his arm, staying his movements.

"Let us see if she means us any ill will first, my friend. Not all who wander in the Abyss are treacherous."

"No? This is hardly the place for an evening walk."

"We are here for a pleasant stroll; perhaps there are others as well. Have you no faith left?"

"Very little."

Raistlin laughed, an odd sound in their current surroundings. Another moment passed, and the stranger was within speaking distance.

"And I had really thought," she said, walking up to the two men without hesitation or preamble, "That I'd seen the last of the mortals when the plague struck."

"You had not, Lady. Not all were killed, and some of the strongest thrived." Dalamar replied, placing himself between Raistlin and the woman.

She would have been lovely, shockingly lovely in fact, but for the mean curve of her mouth and the cold glitter in her eyes. A necklace of black pearls set with jet hung about her slim throat, flashing in a light that was not there. She stared up at Dalamar, noting with obvious approval his thick dark hair and high cheekbones, his beautiful eyes and gently pointed ears. Dalamar knew she found him handsome, knew with a weary sort of amusement that most women did. And he did not care. 'I would kill you without hesitation and be troubled by it not at all.' he thought silently, eyeing her.

She smirked, almost as though she'd read his mind, and turned her attention to Raistlin.

"Two mages dressed in very interesting garments, black as the eyes of Fistandantilus - a very telling color indeed for fellows of your order. One a dark elf with the scent of blood on his clothes, the other a Plane-touched arch mage only hours from death. What brings you to my beautiful realm?"

"The last I had heard, my Lady, this land was under the sway of a different goddess. I do not know you. And you, it would seem, do not know me." Raistlin said softly, "I am not Plane-touched. But my death is indeed not far off."

"As you wish, mage. Your golden skin misled me. I am called Fadija, and as the last of my kind left alive in this place I am the rightful heir of the lands around. All others are dead...some sort of sickness that struck some and left others. I alone was spared of the higher order. But you will not have heard of me, of course. I seldom travel to Krynn. And certainly not to communicate with sickly mages and their errant Elvish counterparts. It is good that I found you before the Hounds. They are hungry, and fresh meat is much prized."

Dalamar was liking her less and less. He maintained his protective stance, guarding Raistlin's frail frame from her prying eyes. It was a strange sight indeed, three people casually conversing in the midst of a dead land. Like a tea-party suddenly plucked from some stuffy sitting-room and deposited in the most inhospitable place imaginable.

Still, he reasoned, if this foul woman was truly the new power here, she might be their only hope of coming through alive.

"You mentioned an illness, Fadija. Is this plague so powerful that it can reach even to the planes of magic?" he asked. She turned her menacing glare back to him.

"It is not the plague. I do not know what it is. Everything, all of those I knew, are fading somehow. They become insubstantial, and then nothing at all. It is horrible to behold, and seems to be extremely painful. Whether it is tied to the sickness that is ravaging your kind I do not know. But I am not sorry. My road to power is open now, and...dear me, what is the matter with your friend?"

Dalamar looked behind him to where Raistlin was bent almost double with agony. A small rivulet of blood ran down the side of his mouth and dripped onto the blackened grass. Dalamar put his arm around his master's shoulders, helping him to straighten without a word. He reached into his pocket for a cloth but, finding none, was compelled to wipe the blood away with his own fingertips. It was a respectful act, not at all condescending or coddling. A few short years ago Dalamar would never have dreamed of performing such a familiar gesture. He had cared only for the power this man could bring him, not for the man. The seared handprint on his chest - a scar left from less companionable days - still pained him sometimes, even though it had healed most of the way. The two mages had not been friends. Compatriots, yes. Teacher and student, certainly. But their friendship had only grown during those dark months when all the world was dying all around them and there seemed little point in aloofness. Fadija looked on with disgust and irritation, annoyed that Raistlin's illness had interrupted her speech. She huffed a sigh and glanced around them impatiently.

"Lady, he is in great need. It is not the plague. He has an immunity to that, it would seem. You are witnessing the last stages of the price he paid for power. If you wish to be rid of the burden we present, I ask that you guide us to our destination." Dalamar kept his voice steady, though nothing would have brought him greater pleasure than to backhand the arrogant woman. But they needed her; needed to rely on a stranger to help them. It was an awful feeling, and Dalamar cursed himself for his weakness.

Fadija smirked, tapping her long black nails against the pallid flesh of her forearm.

"Let the weakling ask. No, in fact. Let him beg." she demanded.

"He is no weakling! You are a fool not to know him, woman, when you seem to know Fistandantilus! This is Raistlin Majere! The most powerful mage ever to have lived!" his voice cracked. He was speaking too loudly, he knew it, and Raistlin next to him was coughing again. The last thing in the world that Dalamar wanted was to be a care-worn nursemaid. But fate had dealt him a hand that he had every intention of playing out. Fadija watched them in silence, and Dalamar continued. "He is my teacher! I have witnessed the most beautiful and strange and terrible things in the world...and a great many things that should not have existed at all...because he has shown them to me! You speak of power, but I see no power in a spoiled little demi-brat trying to rule over a dead land now that the grown-ups have all gone away! Were I you, my 'lady', I would learn to keep a civil tongue in my head or risk losing it!"

"Dalamar." Raistlin said hoarsely, silencing him. He moved to stand in front of the dark Elf, looking down at the diminutive woman with twin fires burning in his hourglass eyes.

"You will guide us or you will join the rest of your species. My counterpart is not a very smooth liar. Surely you are clever enough to see that my illness is not a natural one. I have the sickness that killed your people...and mine. I am cursed, lady. Cursed to kill all who come near me. And only I can remove the sickness once another has been infected."

The change that came over Fadija at these words was stunning. The small amount of color in her face slowly drained away, her eyes growing wide and fearful. One hand clutched at her throat, and she took a step back, all semblance of bravado gone.

"You have been infected," Raistlin's voice was hypnotic, soft and whispery and riveting, "Even now you feel the flush creeping beneath your skin, don't you? Insinuating itself in your veins, working against your immortal blood in the most vicious way, rendering you less substantial by the moment. I alone can save you now, but we have very little time. The antidote will be yours...if you lead us to the place we wish to go."

"You lie!"

"Do I? Can you bear to take that risk, lady?"

Dalamar suppressed a small smile. He had seen many fall beneath Raistlin's power of suggestion. Most sentients were terribly predictable.

Fadija looked from one to the other, seeming to wilt in defeat.

"I will take you there. But where are you going?"

Raistlin gestured vaguely into the distance. "Beyond those hills there is a portcullis that we must enter. It leads to another realm, a place where there is said to dwell a powerful mage that my associate and I very much wish to consult. If you take us to the portcullis and see that we are not harmed in the process, I will preserve your life and leave you to rule this kingdom forevermore."

"I know of the gateway, but we will have to cross a great deal of empty ground. There is nothing to eat or drink here fit for humans, and no shelter. You will die even if we are not attacked." Fadija seemed horrified at the thought of helping them, but more terrified of the sickness she imagined she had contracted.

"That is not your concern. Your only task is to keep these Hounds you speak of - and anything else that may harbor a taste for human meat - away from us as we travel. Agreed?"

"Agreed, arch-mage. But you will hold to your half of the bargain or I will hunt you down even in the lands beyond." Fadija said, trying desperately to reclaim some of her former haughtiness. Raistlin nodded once, curtly, and gestured for the conquered goddess to lead on.

They had found a guide. Now the journey was simply a race against time, and not an insurmountable battle with Abyssal foes. Dalamar sighed in relief and re-shouldered the pack that contained their dwindling supplies and the medicine that Raistlin needed to keep going. Together the trio headed off into the distance, and the portcullis that would lead them to their future.


	4. Out of the Fire

They could hear the Hounds, far off and away over the hills, but Fadija assured them that the beasts would not harm them.

"They will recognize my scent and keep their distance. You, and especially your blood-soaked Master, would have been hunted and slaughtered for certain." she said conversationally to Dalamar. He ignored her, as he had been doing for the past hour. In front of them a few paces, Raistlin was struggling for breath as he walked, leaning heavily on his staff. The heat was stifling, but still the arch-mage trembled.

"Shalafi, will you take my cloak?." Dalamar began untying it, not waiting for a reply. Raistlin said nothing as the rough, heavy fabric was draped around his shoulders. He had not the strength. The fog of death obscured the gray landscape before him, and at times it was difficult to tell the land and sky from the darker lands beyond the curtain of mortality. He put his hand out, tentative, touching the face of someone he could not quite make out.

"Chrysania..." he whispered, but then his vision cleared, and he forced himself to straighten, clutching the cloak tighter about his trembling form.

Dalamar heard him say the name, but he gracefully refrained from making a comment. He had loathed the slim white-robed woman, hated her goodness and her naiveté, the easy way she drew Raistlin out of his shell and forced him to be human. He was glad she had died. Glad, suddenly, for the plague that killed the whole world and left him his master's complete attention.

But he felt small and petty a moment later for harboring the thought.

"Shalafi, are you all right?"

Raistlin's eyes were watering, he doubled over in another coughing fit. It would be soon, he thought as the warm blood bubbled from his lips, making him choke. Every step was torture, every single breath like a knife in his chest. Dalamar was beside him in an instant, lowering him to the crackling gray grass. Fadija watched them with cool detachment, pity and derision plain on her features.

"He's slowing us down, Elf. We should leave him and press on."

Dalamar whirled on her, fire flashing in his dark eyes.

"He dies, you die!" he hissed, catching her by the throat. "If that illness in your system goes any further, this is the fate that awaits you! And I will see that your final moments will be deeply unpleasant."

Fadija looked up into those glittering eyes and said nothing, but the slight flush that crept into her cheeks belied the indignation she felt at being handled in so rough a fashion. Still, the elf did have a point. Weak and pathetic the mage might be, but his fate was tied to her own because she truly believed his warnings about the plague. She pulled away from Dalamar and knelt beside the slim golden-skinned mage on the ground at her feet.

"Majere, breathe slowly." she said softly, taking a small packet of herbs from her pocket. She kissed them, and suddenly they burst into a wavering blue flame, giving off a bitter scent. Raistlin was in no position to fight her off, and so allowed the woman to hold the stinking herbs near him, slowly pulling the smoke into his aching lungs. A freezing numbness began to creep through him. It was uncomfortable and strange, but it eased his breathing somewhat, and the pain abated a little.

"What is that?" Dalamar demanded, protectiveness evident in his voice. He was exhausted and irritated and worried and bitter, but all of that vanished when he was presented with a possible threat to his Master. Fadija glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

"It is called fuldrum, a noble weed that grows on the battlefields where innocents were slaughtered. It numbs the senses and removes pain, placing he who breathes its fumes into a torpor for a time. If you eat it, you will die. But to breathe it only promotes an abatement of suffering."

"That had best be all it does, Lady."

Fadija held the herbs near Raistlin's face until she saw his eyes glaze over, and then she stood up and tossed the smoking bundle away.

"He might be able to walk, but you will have to lead him, Elf. His coughing fits should stop for a little while. Come now - we must continue to move if we wish to remain undetected by the Hounds and other such creatures." she turned away from them then, marching stoically toward the ever-growing mountains in the distance.

Dalamar did not know if he ought to thank her or not, and so he elected to simply remain silent. He helped Raistlin to his feet, noting with a certain grudging admiration that some of the color had returned to his face and his breathing has eased.

"Dalamar, I feel...strange..."

Dalamar tightened his arm around Raistlin's shoulders. The mage's legs seemed not to be able to hold his weight. He swayed, frail as a child. Dalamar clenched his teeth together and lifted his Shalafi into his arms. He weighed no more than a bundle of firewood.

"Please do not die, Shalafi. Not yet. Not yet." he whispered, almost too soft for the mage to hear. But somewhere through the curtain of pain and the stupor of the herbs, Raistlin heard him.

"You...Dalamar...you must not...do not carry..."

Dalamar's legs felt like water as well, but he pushed away the discomfort.

Lift one foot, set it down. Lift the other. Set it down.

He began to walk, following Fadija as she led them to the gate, listening to the rhythm of Raistlin's breathing as the mage fell into a troubled sleep. Neither of them had bathed in several days, but he could only smell Raistlin's spell components, the withered flowers and powdered sandalwood, and a hint of the bitter herbal smoke that Fadija had used to sedate him.

Dalamar hoped that his own smell did not offend his Master. He had never cared for such things before, for how others perceived him, for the thoughts that he inspired or the way his presence was taken. But he felt shame suddenly, as though his arms and his chest were unfit somehow to be the vehicle of transportation for one such as Raistlin. How strange had the past few months made his thoughts.

He had hated Raistlin before, hated him with a fierce passion for his cruelty and his inability to utter so much as a single kind word. But he had hated him on his knees. How close is loathing to worship.

But things had changed. The stink of death had effaced the etchings of resentment and ill feeling on his soul.

Raistlin sighed, and a trickle of blood ran down the side of his mouth. Dalamar, his hands already full, lowered his own cheek to his Master's, wiping away the blood with his face.

Fadija, glancing back, noticed the gesture, and the wave of admiration and mercy that suddenly engulfed her heart stung like a thousand needles. She was reminded of a little pumpkin-colored cat she used to cherish in the days before the Abyss, the way the creature would leap atop her chest as she lay in the grass behind her home, the way it would dig its tiny sharp claws into her, purring. The way the pain felt, the way she thought she would die of love. The memory made her bitter - it was so long ago, and life had trampled her spirit in a thousand ways since then. She turned away from them, angrily swallowing the lump in her throat.

"It is not very much farther, arch-mages. An hour or two will bring us within sight."

Dalamar nodded, forcing himself to continue the forward motion. A trickle of sweat ran into his left eye, and he blinked.

There was no road, no path, but the land around was so flat that it hardly mattered. Dalamar's soft leather boots muffled the sound of his footsteps, and Fadija left no indentation in the grass as she led them. The Hounds in the distance were silent, as though in fear of something larger then themselves. Dalamar remembered sitting by the pond behind Caramon and Tika's home, listening to last few crickets feebly chirping to one another. Inside, Raistlin was getting some much-needed rest, curled up in the ratty old chair by the fire as his brother and sister-in-law slept fitfully nearby in the bed. Raistlin always needed help changing the sheets, and Dalamar was there. The sheets needed to be changed and cleaned once a day - Raistlin insisted on it - and fresh balsam pine boughs needed to be tucked beneath the mattress to fill the room with their subtle woodsy scent, covering up the stench of sickness and impending death. Dalamar's hands were rough from cutting wood, from washing the same blankets and sheets over and over again every day. The manual labor was hard, but he never spoke a word in complaint. It would have been terribly inappropriate in the face of Raistlin's implacable calm. The crickets that night were chirping, there were still a dozen or so left by Dalamar's count, but they all fell silent the moment he stood up.

It was fear, or perhaps apprehension, that quieted the last hearty members of the nocturnal string symphony.

"Why are the Hounds no longer howling?" he asked. Fadija didn't turn around. Something in her posture alarmed him.

"Fadija! Answer me! Why are the Hounds silent?"

"Keep walking, Elf."

"They're closer, aren't they." it was a statement of fact, the sudden sickening realization dawning on him.

Fadija picked up her pace, forcing the already aching Dalamar to follow suit, hitching up the limp body of Raistlin as he broke into a trot.

"Yes, Elf. They are closer."

"So much for their respectful distance from you."

The slim woman glanced back at him, and Dalamar was surprised to see panic on her features. Pity moved him to soften his words, a pity that he had been incapable of for the greater part of his life.

"Don't worry, we're almost there. Perhaps you should come with us."

"I would not know what to do there, Elf."

"Fadija, my name is Dalamar. This is Raistlin."

"Very well...Dalamar. I have lived here most of my life, I hardly remember a time when I did not. Life in another realm horrifies me."

Dalamar laughed, a strange sound in the dead place around them.

"You must have a very warped view of reality if you find living in the Abyss preferable to living outside it."

Fadija flashed him a small smile.

"I suppose that I do."

Raistlin was on fire. A fever was beginning in him, and soon his robes were soaked through with sweat. Dalamar was developing a nasty blister on his chest where the wet body of the mage rubbed against him with every step. He was becoming harder to carry, but Dalamar refused to pause even for a moment. The silence around them was too disheartening, too awful to contemplate. He had never seen a Hell Hound before, not even in a picture, but he was fairly certain that he did not wish to meet one anytime soon. Ahead of them the mountains loomed...

In a few minutes they would be in and among the diseased-looking grey and green trees, providing the little trio with some slight cover at least. Fadija was speeding up yet again, and Dalamar broke into a full run to keep up with her.

A sudden stench assailed his senses, something that reeked of rotting meat and bog water. His guide looked behind her, panic naked on her face.

"RUN!" Fadija screamed, but Dalamar was already running and could go no faster. Something awful was behind him - he didn't know how close or even what it was. But Fadija sprinted away ahead of him and vanished into the trees.

He never saw her again.

"Damn it, Fadija!" he cursed to himself, unwilling to waste breath yelling aloud. Heavy thuds shook the ground all around him. If he would only stop and lay down his burden, he could be free, he could be safe.

His memory whirled again.

Raistlin had come out to watch Dalamar finish digging the grave for Tika. He held a cold side of beef and a dry biscuit in his hands, and passed the meager gifts down to the exhausted dark elf in the hole at his feet. Dalamar accepted the meal, climbing up to sit on the edge. Raistlin sank down beside him on the fresh dirt. There were deep shadows under his eyes, Dalamar noted with some concern, and he was losing weight.

"Tika is dead." Raistlin said softly. Dalamar nodded, taking a bite of bread.

"Was it a peaceful ending?" he asked after he'd swallowed. Raistlin didn't answer. His sad golden eyes took on a far-away look.

"Dalamar, do you remember Kitiara?"

Did he ever.

"Yes, Shalafi. Yes, I remember her."

Raistlin looked down at his hands, the smooth nails and the small silver ring he wore on one index finger. There was dried blood on the back of one, and he picked at it.

"I think of her once in awhile. She saved my life, held me when I cried, fed me, took over for mother and fought the fates to keep me breathing. I know now what she must have felt. I held Tika as she died. I held her as I have never held a woman before, or anyone for that matter."

It was the most he'd said in weeks, and Dalamar found himself hoping that he would go on.

After a moment, Raistlin began speaking again.

"It seems like some sort of horrible dream. But I am almost glad."

"Why?"

"Because they looked at me differently. Tika and Caramon, I mean. They looked at me without hate. They relied on me for food and comfort and care in the end, and I was happy to provide such things. I have never felt this way before."

Dalamar looked at him in silence, marveling at the words. He, too, felt a change beginning in him. Raistlin met his gaze, and for once Dalamar had no desire to look away.

"Dalamar. My friend. I am sorry for all the ways in which I have failed you."

Dalamar was utterly shocked. Of all the things he'd expected his Master to say, this was even beyond the last.

"Can you forgive me?"

Raistlin's voice held no hint of pleading. It was simply a question. Dalamar smiled wearily, his heart lighter than it had been in a very long time.

"Of course I can forgive you, Shalafi. But there is very little to forgive. You have taught me so much."

"But I have harmed you as well, and for that I am sorry."

The handprint on Dalamar's chest still hurt once in awhile. It would never fully heal. But now it ached with something akin to sweetness, his soul bathed in the realization that he was witnessing a change in his teacher that no one else would ever know.

And now, running for his life - and Raistlin's - the wound hurt again. His flesh was being rubbed off by the bouncing of Raistlin's limp body in his arms, and whatever hellish nightmare that pursued them was getting closer and closer by the moment.

But still he ran.

'Can you forgive me...' his master has asked.

Dalamar could see a thin line of stones ahead of them, and a crack between that might offer protection.

Without a moment's hesitation, he sprang forward, catching his foot in a crevice and twisting it dreadfully. He threw Raistlin bodily into the crack, flinging himself in a second later and pushing with every ounce of his strength until the two of them plummeted into a small subterranean chamber below.

There was not a moment to lose.

Dalamar spun around, grabbing a sharp rock in his hand, and scrambled to the mouth of the small cave. He was prepared to do battle to save them, fight to the death before just lying down and giving up. It was not in his nature to acquiesce.

A huge, red, vicious creature rather like a bear and a boar at once crouched just outside the cave, its fangs glistening. The thing was unlike any beast Dalamar had ever seen before, but he hesitated only the briefest of moments before darting out to slash at its face with the rock. His blow struck home, opening a small gash on the monster's brow. It reared back, swiping at him with claws that looked to be at least a foot long each.

He tried to dodge the attack, but his twisted ankle gave out and he fell forward, taking a horrific slash across the midsection that felt as though it sliced through his heart. Hot blood spilled down his chest as he scrambled backward, raising the rock again.

A voice whispered behind him, and a flare of white light shot forth from the back of the cave. The creature instantly retreated as though stung, howling in rage. So intense was its reaction that it literally fell over its own feet in the haste to get away. Dalamar fell to his knees, dropping the rock. Pure agony coursed through his body in rhythm with his pulse, and he looked down to see what damage had been done.

It was considerable. His shirt was torn from sternum to stomach, and he could see the slippery glint of muscle inside the long gash. His breath was coming in shallow pants, the pain so potent that he was afraid he would pass out.

Raistlin pulled him back into the cave with great effort, collapsing against the wall in a daze. The spell had saved them from the beast outside, but it left him so close to the brink of death that he swore he could feel its clutches circling his heart.

"Shalafi..." Dalamar moaned, turning his head slightly to look at Raistlin. Their situation had never seemed so utterly dire as it did now. Raistlin fumbled weakly with a pouch on his belt, drawing forth a tiny silver flask bearing an inscription.

Dalamar recognized it instantly as a healing draught.

"No! You...you must...must..." the pain was fiercer than lava, and he had to force himself to form the words. "You must...take it...Shalafi..."

Raistlin shook his head slowly and unstoppered the bottle with trembling fingers.

"Dalamar, it is up to you now. I am too close to death. It will be only a few minutes more, I believe. You have a far better chance of gaining the portcullis than I. Take it."

Dalamar did not resist as Raistlin poured the potion into his mouth. His determination to carry Raistlin to the very end if he had to burned for a moment brighter than the pain.

Healing potions worked quickly, especially those made by the hands of the Sea Elves. This one was potent. Raistlin must have been keeping it safe for quite awhile. It would not have healed the plague or saved his own life from the ravages of the strange mage-sickness that had been with him for decades, but Dalamar's wound proved no match for the powerful ingredients. Within a few seconds Dalamar was able to struggle to his feet, his breathing eased.

Wordlessly, he turned and picked Raistlin up again, and ignoring the mage's weak protests carried him from the dark stone pit and back into the grey light.

It was only a few hundred yards to the gate, a distance that Dalamar covered in a matter of minutes. In his arms, Raistlin had stopped breathing.

The last thing Dalamar beheld before vanishing through the gate and into the other realm was the form of a pack of Hell Hounds on the horizon, sniffing at a bloody splash on the ground at the mouth of the cave.


	5. Hospitality

Roltan sat still next to the fountain in the courtyard of Dragon's Lair, watching the glittering curtain of the aurora with the same childlike wonder he always did, no matter how many times he saw it. The universe was such a lovely place, he thought, admiring the colors. He remembered a time before the aurora, before this particular planet had cooled and the atmosphere had formed, but he greatly favored the finished product over that gloomy void. He always preferred light and color and beauty to the endless depth of nothingness...unlike his brother, who thrived in such secretive places. Though the two brothers looked identical in body, their spirits were literally eons apart. Zellfiend liked to conquer and kill while Roltan preferred to study and learn. One dark, the other light. Both more powerful and indestructible than any other creature save the gods themselves.

But only one of them, Roltan thought with a small smile, knew how to appreciate the beauty in something so simple as the aurora.

With a sigh of contentment, he stood up, preparing to go inside.

"Are you Roltan Mettamoon, Grand Master Necromancer of Aeshalon?" a voice suddenly asked from the shadows. It was a whispery voice; the speaker sounded exhausted and weak. Roltan, curious, walked over to the wall and looked for the individual, wondering who could be searching for him at such an hour.

It was an Elvish mage, dressed all in black robes. Tattered, bloody black robes. In his arms he held another mage, one that seemed to be very ill or wounded. The burden was too much for him...he knelt down and laid his companion on the cobblestones, pillowing the man's head in his lap. Mercy was second nature to Roltan, and he eagerly moved forward to kneel beside them.

"I am Roltan." he said pleasantly enough. "Why do you seek me?"

"We wish to learn from you, wise one. We have…" the Elf began, but the man on the ground began coughing slightly, his entire body shaking with the strain of it. When he turned his face to the light Roltan was alarmed to see that the man's thin lips were stained with blood.

_'He's dying.'_ The vampire realized, watching the Elf meticulously wipe his master's lips with a ragged gray shred of cloth.

"Are you all right, young man?" Roltan asked, concerned. The gold-skinned stranger on the ground did not answer. His caretaker instead spoke softly.

"His malady is incurable. This is Raistlin Majere, and I am his apprentice Dalamar, and we have come a long, long way to seek you. If the rumors that we have heard are true, than you are the oldest and most powerful being alive. That's why we're here."

"I don't use those powers you speak of very often. It's dangerous to be talking like this outside. Come with me and we can discuss such matters further." Roltan replied. He held out his arm to the mage, intending to offer assistance, but was rebuffed with a sharp glance. Dalamar instead helped him to his feet, then stepped respectfully back.

Sighing, Roltan gave up on trying to help and instead walked with the men over to a large flat stone in the courtyard. They stepped onto it in silence together.

"Close your eyes, this particular magic causes a bit of nausea. It's a transport stone, it can take us anywhere in the castle." Roltan explained. Raistlin nodded once and closed his strange eyes, Dalamar following suit. A moment later they stood in Roltan's private chambers. Dalamar collapsed into a chair by the window, burying his head in his hands.

They'd made it.

In the glow from the firelight the vampire finally got a good look at the mages, in particular the gold-fleshed one. The black robes he wore were stained with travel and torn in many places, showing bare flesh on a skeletal frame beneath. His feet were bare and covered in sores, his hands torn and caked with dirt as though he had been clawing his way through dark places. The silky white hair was matted and filthy. His eyes, staring out from a gaunt face, were as large and luminous and haunting as a trapped doe's. He coughed, shivering with the cold even as he burned with fever. Roltan's heart wrenched at the sight of this pitiful being. Laying a friendly hand on Raistlin's shoulder he drew him closer to the fire, helping him to sit down.

"You, my friend, look like you've been through a war." He said gently. To his surprise, Raistlin laughed weakly.

"I suppose so. I have been searching for a portal here for quite some time. It is a great relief to me that I have finally found you, Master Mettamoon. You can't possibly understand what it means-" he coughed again, blood frothing from his lips.

"By the Law, Majere, you're falling apart. Let me help you, then we'll talk." Roltan said softly. Raistlin nodded wearily, his eyes mistrustful. Dalamar watched carefully from his chair, ready to spring to his Master's defense in a heartbeat if need be.

Roltan stood up and walked to his work table, pulling down several herbs from the shelf and tossing various bandages and ointments into a large basin. He grabbed a cup and a small brown bottle from the edge of the table and turned back to his new friend, laying the packages on the sideboard and kneeling down to pull the last few shreds of woolen hose away from the mage's horribly maimed feet.

"What happened to your boots?" Roltan asked, pouring water into the emptied basin. Raistlin shook his head, coughing.

"Lost them…Abyss…no time to look…"

"Here," Roltan said gently, handing him the cup. He poured a generous measure of the contents of the little bottle into the cup, then added water. "Drink this, it will help. Later, when we have more time, I will concoct a draught to heal your ailment. I know that you believe it to be incurable –"

"It is the price I paid for power."

"Whatever you choose to call it, I can heal you. There has never been an illness that I was unable to remove. Please trust me. Now do drink up, it will ease your pain in the short term."

Raistlin brought the cup to his lips, sighing in relief as the fragrant mixture soothed his throat. The pain in his chest abated…vanished, in fact. Wonder and gratefulness crossed his features, and he sat back, feeling stronger. He watched the pale-skinned necromancer as he slid first one foot, then the other into the steaming water and tossed in a handful of withered herbs.

"That stings."

"I know. I'm terribly sorry, but I must to clean the wounds before I bandage them. The herbs will draw out any debris and infection and remove the scabs. Here, put this over your hands." He handed the mage a soft cloth soaked in the medicinal solution. Raistlin complied, grimacing with the pain.

They were silent for a few minutes, Roltan intent on his ministrations.

"I don't have an apprentice right now because I don't like them." The vampire said quietly. Raistlin put one moist hand on his shoulder.

"You can't turn me away. Not after what I've gone through to get here."

Roltan chewed his lip speculatively, meeting Raistlin's feverish golden eyes with his cool gray ones.

Something passed between them then, an understanding of sorts. Though Roltan knew less than nothing about this person before him, he could tell that the mage had great ambition. No one without it would have gone through such obvious torment to reach a being of questionable existence, not even knowing if he would be well received when he found him. Roltan knew what it was to have such ambition, he knew the burning need for ever greater power. He understood.

Raistlin, likewise, had the oddest feeling that he had come home. He'd never been well liked before, and it was rather pleasant to finally meet what he perceived to be an equal. The necromancer's touch was gentle, his eyes held no malice or dislike or fear. Raistlin was actually starting to like him. The lines of cunning and bitterness around his eyes and mouth soothed, and he smiled.

"I don't need an apprentice, Majere." Roltan repeated, then he smiled as well, "But I could use an assistant."

"I believe that I could fill that position admirably, Master Mettamoon."

"Call me Roltan, my friend."

"All right, Roltan. You may use my first name as well. Now, if you don't mind, I believe that I am going…to… pass…out."

His head lolled forward onto his thin chest, eyes closing. Roltan dried the mage's feet on a fold of his own robe.

He had the feeling that this was the beginning of a long and glorious friendship.

"Will he live?" Dalamar asked softly. Roltan stood up and moved to empty the basin, refilling it with warm water to retrace the cleansing process with Dalamar's feet, which were even more damaged.

"I believe he will, in fact. As I have said, there is nothing I have not been able to cure yet."

"Even death?"

Roltan gently began washing Dalamar's maimed feet, grimacing with sympathetic pain as he pulled a three-inch shard of stone from one of the Elf's ankles.

"Death, young man, is simply another illness to a necromancer."

The thought suddenly, irrationally set Dalamar's teeth on edge. The thought of a necromancer laying his hands upon his or Raistlin's corpse made him want to attack something. But it was extremely hard to find fault with this strange, pale mage with the oddly arresting gray eyes. He was kind and friendly, not haughty and aloof the way that arch-mages on Krynn tended to be. The room was warm and well-furnished, including a healthy amount of purely artistic touches that lent a homey and refined air to what was otherwise a very advanced laboratory. Fistandantilus had never taken such pains to decorate his living spaces, nor had any of the other unsavory characters that Raistlin had sought for guidance and learning in the past. Dalamar began to relax in spite of himself.

But Raistlin had been right.

The medicated water did sting.

He was suddenly very weary, his entire body aching, his feet and hands and the place across his stomach where the wound had only partially closed stinging fiercely. He wondered if the vampire could smell his blood.

And whether that was a bad thing...

As though reading his mind, Roltan looked up at him and flashed a toothy grin.

"You seem to have cut yourself, mage." he said sympathetically.

"Are you planning to make a meal of me?" Dalamar blurted out, then blushed slightly as the necromancer laughed.

"Certainly not! I drink very rarely, and even then only a few pints from a willing victim or two. I deal with reanimation...why in the name of Holy Law would I make added work for myself?"

"That's the second time you've sworn by the law. Is it so important here?"

"Not law, Elf. Law. The god of Law, Nova himself. It is the being that created me, and the one to whom my pledge has been given. I live with the chosen creatures of Chaos, but my soul belongs to Law. And that in itself is chaotic. An amusing irony, don't you think?"

"Quite." Dalamar grimaced as Roltan carefully dried his feet and began to apply a thick ointment to the wounds. It was all too wonderful to believe. They had arrived, Raistlin would live, this creature was uncommonly kind, and all of the pain they had endured on the journey would become a mere memory.

Roltan finished dressing his wounds, pulling a pair of clean white linen socks over the maimed feet to protect them. He carried the basin away again, then returned with a flask of wine and a plate of fresh bread. These he set on the small table beside Dalamar, then turned away again to rummage through one of the many cupboards.

"I think you'll need a stitch or two, if my sense of smell is not deceiving me. How did you come by those wounds?"

"Some demon-beast," Dalamar said, pausing to take a grateful gulp of the wine, which proved to be exceptional, "It had us quite trapped in a cave before Raistlin cast a spell to repel it. I half expected us to be dead by now."

Roltan sat down across from him, glancing over to where Raistlin slept peacefully in the firelight.

"I will have the servants prepare rooms for you here in the Tower. You'll have to make do for now with my quarters, which are just there beyond that statue. I shall make your friend comfortable in the bed, and prepare the sofa for you. It is most relaxing, I assure you. And you'll be near the fire."

"You would give us your room?" Dalamar asked, surprised and touched, "But we are strangers to you. Why would you do this?'

Roltan blinked, seemingly startled by the question.

"Because he's gravely ill, and you desperately need rest. I shall be quite happy out here with a bedroll. Do you come from such a barbaric and selfish world that kindness is foreign to you? Great gods, what a sorry life you must have had, Dalamar. Take my room and be welcome. Bathe in my bathtub, change into my clothes, eat from my stores, read my books," he waved an elegant hand vaguely toward the laboratory, "play with my spell components, pet my cat. Just don't try to drive a stake through my heart or stab me with a silver dagger or set me on fire or any of the other tiresome things I sometimes have to deal with from my guests. It will do you absolutely no good and may make me a bit irritated. Not much, mind you, but enough to disrupt my work and put me in a foul mood for a day or two."

Dalamar stared at him.

"You are the oddest being I have ever met." he said without malice.

Roltan smiled again and leaned back in his chair.

"When you have been around since the dawn of creation, you tend to develop a few eccentricities." he said by way of an answer, "Now, please tell me of your adventures. The name of Majere is known to me, and I should very much like to hear of the Tower of Wayreth and the passage of the Wars. Not to mention, of course, your plan for concealing yourselves from the dark gods of your world."

Dalamar paused, his glass halfway to his lips, and looked over at Roltan.

"What did you say?"

"Your gods, Dalamar." Roltan repeated gently, "The dark gods of your realm. The ones who will never forgive that man over there - or you for that matter - and will never rest until you are both destroyed. Crossing a few dimensional boundaries may shake off some of the mortal mages, but do you really think the greater beings will forget about your existence?"

"I highly doubt that, Master Roltan. They're all dead…"


	6. Many Questions

Chapter Six: Many Questions

Roltan did all he could to make them comfortable.

Two beautiful young Elvish servants were called, and they drew a large marble tub full of water and filled it with fragrant bubbles. It was situated comfortably behind a silk screen in the corner of Roltan's spacious bedchamber. Dalamar watched them apprehensively, wondering if his kind were the lower class in this place.

"Do you require assistance in the bath, sir?" the blonde one asked.

"Ah, no. No thank you. Not this evening, at any rate." Dalamar said. He hardly felt comfortable having a stranger touch him when he was in such a malnourished and filthy state, no matter how enticing the stranger. The young woman nodded and turned to draw a basin full of water, joining her companion at Raistlin's bedside and unlacing his tattered robes.

Dalamar felt a small stab of amusement as the girls began giving the sleeping mage a thorough sponge bath.

'That's probably the most thrilling experience of his life,' he thought as he slid into the tub, 'And the poor fellow isn't even awake for it.'

"Great Balance, look at some of these wounds, Annah!"

"The poor sweet dear!"

"Here, help me get these robes off."

"Just toss them down to the incinerator, they look all in."

Raistlin was dimly aware of voices, and something warm and wet being rubbed across his stomach, but he was fading in and out of consciousness and couldn't for the life of him comprehend what was happening. But it felt good, and he was in no pain for the first time in months.

"These stripes tell me he was flogged at one point!"

"And look at those scars near the stomach! Like something horrible has been gouging at him!"

"Not anymore, by Balance! Roltan says this one is to be given protection!"

"Oh, the poor man."

The one with the lower voice seemed to be called Annah. Were they angels? Or devils?

Raistlin didn't truly care at this point. He felt warm and comfortable, the surface he was lying on seemed softer than pure goose down, and there was a wonderfully delicious smell emanating from somewhere nearby. He sighed, his eyelids flickering.

"I think he's waking up. Are you finished with your side yet?"

"Almost. Help me get him into this dressing gown."

"It's too big for the poor skinny little fellow. He looks like he hasn't eaten properly in weeks."

"Only for now. We'll soon have him fattened up and healthy as a Drac." "There, pull his left arm through."

Dalamar, soaping his hair, chuckled softly at the snippets of conversation he was hearing from beyond the screen. If he were not so tired, he would be having the time of his life listening to his Shalafi in such a vulnerable state. It was endearing, the way the two Elves fussed over him. Raistlin would have been mortified.

The water was warm and soothing against his many cuts and bruises, and soon it had turned black as the flesh of a Drow as he scrubbed layer upon layer of grime from his white skin. When he emerged from the bath , clean and refreshed, he wrapped himself in the heavy linen robes that the Elves had set out for him. They were Roltan's, and as a consequence were a bit too large on him, but they were clean and warm and he was grateful.

He waited politely behind the screen for the Elves to finish with his master, then when he heard them leave he emerged into the warm room and went to Raistlin's side.

They'd done a wonderful job. The mage's hair was clean and damp, brushed back from his face to dry on the burgundy satin pillow. He was dressed in a clean white cotton gown and tucked under a pile of down blankets. Dalamar sat in a chair next to the bed and took Raistlin's hand in his own.

"Shalafi?"

"Have they gone?"

Dalamar smiled, shaking his head.

"Yes, Shalafi. They've left. How are you feeling?"

Raistlin opened his eyes and struggled to sit up, leaning back against the pillows and casting a rueful glance at his companion.

"Violated."

It was too much for Dalamar. He burst out laughing.

"And here I believed you to be asleep." he chuckled.

"So did they, apparently. I was resting rather soundly as a matter of fact. But it does feel good to be clean."

Dalamar patted his hand reassuringly.

"Master Mettamoon appears to be a very congenial fellow, to say the least."

"I knew nothing of his kindness. Most of the ancient tomes only mentioned his power, and one or two let on that he was of the undead, but none told of his generosity."

Dalamar noticed a carafe of water nearby on a small ebony table, and he poured a glass full and held it to Raistlin's lips.

"Thank you." Raistlin said after he drank half of it. Dalamar, to the best of his knowledge, couldn't remember him ever being so kind. He set the glass down and tucked the blankets in a little tighter. He, too, felt immensely better at being clean. Clean and warm and out of danger for the moment. It was a relief, though he half expected all of it to be a dream.

He settled back into the chair by Raistlin's bedside, making himself comfortable near to his Master should the weakened mage need anything.

Two hours later there was a quiet knock. Rather than call out and risk waking Raistlin, who was sleeping soundly, Dalamar limped over and opened the heavy door. There was a young woman in the hallway bearing a tray of food and a wine bottle in her hands. Her long black hair was swept back from her heart-shaped face with a thick green ribbon, and her eyes were as yellow as buttercups.

"I am Aegis, familiar of Lord Roltan. He bade me come and see to your ankle, as well as bring you and the other fellow some food." she said in a high, thin voice. Dalamar stepped back, watching her closely as she set the tray down on a table near the window. There was something very strange about her.

"I was under the impression that most familiars were animals, my lady." he said carefully. She gestured for him to sit down, and he did so, offering his wounded ankle to her ministrations.

"You are correct, mage. I am indeed an animal. A cat, to be precise. But my Lord has seen fit to gift me with shape-changing abilities so that I may serve him better. Does this hurt?" she touched his foot.

"No. The pain is emanating more from the left side, near the ball of the heel."

Aegis bent down and sniffed the place experimentally, then nodded.

"You've not broken it, at least. But you will be sore for some time, I'm afraid. What is a Dark Elf? Lord Roltan called you that name."

He was taken somewhat aback by the question, and hesitated a moment before answering.

"Where I come from, my kind are called that." he answered. The Cat looked up at him quizzically.

"Elaborate."

"I have left my home land."

Aegis tugged sharply at his foot, and there was a sickening pop as the joint slid neatly back into place. Dalamar let out an anguished yelp.

"That hurt, damn it!"

Aegis smiled, showing sharp little white cat's teeth.

"I know. But you bore it like a man."

"Sarcasm. How very catlike."

"You have no idea."

Behind them, Raistlin started coughing. Aegis was on her feet and at his side in a flash. Dalamar would have followed, but his entire leg up to the thigh felt like it was on fire, so he contented himself with watching the graceful way the young woman loped across the room.

She leaned over Raistlin, crooning soft words in a language Dalamar had not heard before.

Raistlin recognized the words being spoken to him, and his eyes snapped open. It was a feline dialect, well-known to most arch mages.

"Are we awake, master?" the strange girl purred, kneading his chest slightly with her soft little hands. He smiled sleepily, feeling much stronger for the long rest.

"I am indeed, cat. Please thank Lord Roltan for me."

"I shall. I shall indeed. Do you feel well enough to eat something?"

"As long as it isn't mice."

A few moments later found the two mages seated at the wooden table, bare feet brushing the thick black carpet. Aegis was an attentive servant, filling their glasses with sweet white wine and making sure their plates never emptied. All the while she kept up a steady stream of stories (all cats love stories) about her long history with Roltan and their many adventures together. He's found her in a garbage dump six centuries ago and taken pity on her, a little starving kitten with a broken tail trying to scratch out a living in the refuse pits of Chivarro, a distant planet. Roltan brought her home and fed her fresh meat mixed with a variety of potions that tasted funny. But she was terribly hungry, and ate everything anyway. A few weeks passed, and she gained the ability to speak and think like a human. And later, under Roltan's gentle direction, she was able to take on the form of a woman.

"Are you lovers?" Dalamar asked.

"Certainly not! He is my master, and I his familiar. The Lord has taken no lovers in all the time I have known him. He is solitary, a scholar and necromancer of the first degree. I sleep at the foot of his bed, and sometimes under the covers if he wants me to be closer, but always as a cat."

Raistlin smiled at Dalamar from across the table, shaking his head, and Dalamar found himself grinning back. They were both finding this place to their liking more and more. Aegis was quite an interesting novelty, and the mages were equally curious as to what other sorts of creatures and inventions existed in the rest of the castle.

The door opened, and Roltan stepped in, closing it gently behind him. Aegis trotted over to him and bumped her head against his shoulder in greeting.

"I have set the Elf's ankle and fed them both, master." she said happily. Roltan kissed her cheek.

"Thank you, my dear. You may go hunting now."

She scampered from the room, sliding down into her cat form as she went.

"Ah, I see that you're both looking much cleaner and stronger than when you came in. I was rather worried."

Raistlin struggled to his feet and bowed.

"My Lord, we are honored by your hospitality. But perhaps, if you don't mind, we could discuss the terms of our service."

Roltan laughed at the eagerness plain on Raistlin's face and sat down beside Dalamar, helping himself to a glass of wine.

"By all means, my friend. I am sorry to have kept you waiting. I do remember what it was like to be young and impatient. Quite well, actually. To begin with, I should like to know something of yourselves."

Raistlin sat down again as well, visibly weakened by the exertion of standing. He was still so very weak...

"I am the youngest son of three children, with a sister and a brother before me. I was born sick and useless. My childhood was a misery until I discovered the wonders of mage craft, which offered some respite from the torment visited upon me by the village children and the daily battle with my ill health. My Test took place at the Tower of Wayreth and nearly killed me. And so on and so forth, pacts with dark mages, pissing off gods, delving into unmentionable territory, challenging Takhisis, et cetera. Dalamar?"

After a few moments of tense silence, Dalamar cleared his throat.

"My father was Derathos Argent, my mother the beautiful Ronan Windwalker. I met my Shalafi in my ninety-seventh year a while after being banished from my homeland. He's taught me a great deal, and I am grateful." Dalamar lapsed into silence. He, too felt uneasy under the keen gray stare of Roltan Mettamoon. It wasn't that the necromancer was looking at them with malice or distrust...it was just that his gaze was so steady, his eyes so clear, his face so ethereal and haunting that he seemed completely unnatural. Which he was, in a manner of speaking.

He smiled.

"And you carried him here on a twisted ankle at the risk of your own life."

Dalamar nodded, unsure of how he should reply. He settled for saying nothing. Roltan nodded slowly, approvingly.

"It sounds like the two of you have had rather interesting pasts. Now, about your duties -"

"My Lord?" Dalamar interrupted. Raistlin kicked him under the table, but he pressed on.

"Lord Roltan, what of your past? I know only what I have read of you, which is even less than my Shalafi has read. Can you tell us something of yourself?"

"Please forgive my apprentice, my Lord. He is young and has no concept of your power." Raistlin apologized.

"No, no. It's fine. Really, I'm not so egocentric as all that. I certainly don't mind being spoken to as an equal. I have company very rarely, and am rather enjoying your presence here. And I certainly don't mind answering your questions. My twin brother and I were the first beings created by the Unified God, the all-powerful Being who eventually split into three parts. Law, Chaos, and Balance. I now follow Law, but live in the realm of Chaos. They are my friends. My brother chooses to live his life in another part of the galaxy, bending his will to gaining ever greater power over all sentient beings even as I spend the bulk of my time learning and studying the knowledge of every species in existence. We are two halves of the same coin, in a way. His name is Zellfiend, and I love him dearly despite our differences. You will meet him one day, I am certain. I have one child, a son named Shadow that comes here very rarely. He was born to a greater demoness, a succubus that I adored for many years. When she died, he came to find me. And every thousand years or so he comes round again to visit." Roltan fell silent, his eyes taking on a faraway look.

"Are all those close to you so very long-lived, my Lord?" Raistlin asked.

"Not all, sadly. But I am a master of death, and can hold it back for as long as I wish, or reverse it, if necessary. It is the science I have chosen to study longer and harder than any other. Aegis has lived far, far beyond her normal lifespan because she is precious to me and I will not have her die. Shadow has my blood in his veins. He will outlive the stars. And the two of you, if you truly wish to learn from me all you desire to know, will have to accept my rule that death stay clear of you for at least the next eon or so. Knowledge is not a thing to rush at by any means."

"You mentioned healing me..." Raistlin whispered, a flicker of hope in his eyes.

Roltan smacked a hand to his forehead as though just remembering.

"Yes! Oh, how terribly thoughtless of me! I shall gather the needed ingredients and have something for you by tomorrow evening. Thank you for reminding me. And I will have those rooms prepared for you as well by that time. The Elves are already seeing to it as we speak. I think you'll be very pleased."

"The Elves, sir. Are they some sort of serving class here?" Dalamar asked. Roltan shook his head.

"Not in so many words, no. But they serve Draconia as all the conquered must. It was penance for the Elvish Coalition of Planets standing against Draconia during the Great War. But the Elves are paid well and not treated poorly. The servitude was to last five hundred years, but that was six hundred and seventy years ago. Most of the Elves stayed to serve because they'd grown very fond of their Drac masters and their comfortable lives here."

"When you say Draconian, do you mean creatures similar to those on Krynn?" Raistlin asked, recalling the huge stupid lizard creatures that appalled his brother so terribly. Roltan laughed.

"Not at all! These are bigger, sleeker, and far more intelligent than anything you've seen before. But it is late, and the two of you need to rest. There will be plenty of time to learn of your new surroundings tomorrow."

He stood up and bowed slightly, the picture of a gracious host.

"Please make yourselves comfortable. No one will disturb you before at least noon tomorrow. I'm very glad you made it. The Abyss is nothing to scoff at. Rest well."

And with that, he turned and left the two mages to their thoughts.

"Eons? Do you think he meant that?" Dalamar asked after a while, taking a bite of potatoes. Raistlin drained the wineglass and leaned back, his face speculative.

"I have been seeking immortality all my life." he whispered, almost to himself. And so he had. All the pain and anguish, the sleepless nights studying magic, the lost relationships and the great gulf that yawned wider and wider every year between him and his brother.

His brother.

Suddenly he sat bolt upright, his eyes feverish.

"Great gods!"

Dalamar paused, mid-chew.

"What is it, my lord?"

Raistlin started to speak, but such was his excitement that the words all tried to come out together, and he broke into a coughing fit. Dalamar limped around to his side and rubbed his back, trying to ease his master's suffering.

"Shall I call for Lord Roltan, Shalafi?"

Raistlin shook his head, trying to speak. He motioned to Dalamar to hand him a glass of water, and when he'd drunk a generous measure he sat down heavily, missing the chair completely and landing in an undignified heap on the floor.

"Shalafi!" Dalamar tried to help him up, but Raistlin grabbed his arm and pulled him down as well. For a moment Dalamar thought he was weeping, and he moved to put a comforting arm around the mage's thin shoulders. But Raistlin wasn't crying.

He was laughing.

"What in all of Krynn?" Dalamar feared his master might be going mad, that the strain of the past few months had finally cracked his sanity.

"Dalamar!" Raistlin gasped, tears running down his golden cheeks. "Oh sweet Dalamar!"

"What? What, Raistlin? What is it?"

"Caramon! Tika! Even that damned Tasslehoff! Oh gracious! Kitiara and Tanis and Palin and Usha -"

"Dead, my teacher. All dead and buried. Shhhh, you'll hurt yourself."

Raistlin violently shook his head, still laughing.

"You don't understand! Stupid, short-sighted, wonderful, faithful Dalamar! Caramon! Oh great Law, Chaos, Balance and whomever else is out there!"

He grabbed the bewildered Elf by the shoulders, shaking him and laughing with pure joy.

"We can bring them back, Dalamar! Roltan is a master of death, he said so himself! We can learn it, bring them back and make things right! A whole new chance! My brother, my sister, everyone we knew and loved! Everyone we stepped on and pushed aside to get where we are today!"

Dalamar was dumbfounded.

"Master, what you speak of cannot be natural." he said carefully, "Haven't we angered the gods enough?"

"No! No, not by half!" Raistlin was adamant, elated, unwavering, "Can't you see? It's a chance, my friend!" he dropped his voice, totally worn out by the exertion.

"A chance...to make things right." he whispered.

Dalamar helped him to his feet and over to the bed, laying the mage down and drawing the covers up and over him. Raistlin was still laughing and crying all at once, the possibility of correcting the mistakes of his past bright and real before his eyes. Dalamar left him to his quiet ranting and hurried to find Roltan.

Raistlin was either losing his mind, or had just figured out a way to settle their score with the world.


	7. Questions Answered

Chapter 7

Roltan listened carefully as Dalamar explained the situation. The Elf's words were fast, rushed almost, and there was a hint of a warm flush just beneath his pale skin. When he finally paused for breath, Roltan held up a hand to stem the flow of words.

"What you are suggesting is a very long, arduous process that may very well drive you and your master to distraction long before you finish." he explained gently. "The resurrection of an individual who has died last week takes the better part of a month to complete, and even then there is a requirement for extensive physical therapy and mental assistance for weeks, even years afterwards. Memory loss is common, and emotional instability rampant. There is no telling what the fallout would be from an undertaking as involved as you are referring to, Dalamar."

"By your own admission we have nothing but time, my Lord. Will you speak with my Shalafi?"

Roltan sighed, looking down at the unruffled pool spread out before him in the moonlight. His pale skin glistened in the haunted blue light, the shadows of tree branches scattered across his eyes. Dalamar lowered himself to the ground at the vampire's feet, sitting cross-legged on the soft grass.

"Your master...he is relatively focused." Roltan noted carefully.

Dalamar almost smiled. The statement was so beautifully far off the mark.

"My Shalafi is the very epitome of intensity. I have never known him to relax. At least, not until recent events..." he trailed off, looking out over the pond. A strange gentleness touched his heart, and he picked up a willow twig from the grass at his feet, studying the intricate leaves. Roltan sighed.

"You know, I had heard a great deal about young Master Majere and his apprentice before the two of you arrived here, but nothing that did either one of you any justice. He is truly a power to be reckoned with, and you..."

Dalamar looked sharply up at him.

"What about me?"

"Take no offense, Dark Elf. I was about to say that you seem a great deal softer and kinder than I was led to believe. Are you truly the same individual who killed his master's sister, who gave all the world of Krynn good reason to hate and fear him even as he strove for ever greater power by betraying his teacher to the Conclave?"

Dalamar looked away, anger making his eyes darken.

"I am. I mean, I was. Before the plague." he found himself opening up to Lord Roltan, the words coming forth in a sudden gush as though draining from a deep wound. "I don't know why I stayed with my Shalafi when the plague struck. Maybe it was because I thought that I would be all right in the end if I didn't stray too far. Everyone was dying, stinking, clogging the streets and the water supplies with their bodies. The water turned to poison but people were burning with fever and drank it anyway. There was fear everywhere, and horror. The clerics died first, found bloated and stiff in their temples by shocked followers. Then the worshippers of Paladin. All the good and kind folk of the world seemed to be fading, their eyes failing, their bodies falling apart. We still do not know why. There was sickness everywhere, and the people of balance began to die. We knew we were next. My Shalafi did not call to me, but yet I sought him in the darkest places of the world. It was widely believed that he was being tormented in the Abyss, but with the disappearance of the gods he was freed. I found him, bleeding and furious and terribly weak, at the Inn of the Last Home. His brother's son was already dead, and Caramon was too ill to rise from his bed." Dalamar felt a lump rising in his throat, and he closed his eyes against the sting of tears. Roltan knelt beside him on the grass, and the vampire's hand was gentle on Dalamar's shoulder.

"Go on."

After drawing a deep breath, Dalamar continued.

"I came over the hill in the evening and saw him. Tika had done her best to tend his wounds and he was wearing some of Caramon's clothes. But the blood, the blood was still coming. His back was oozing pus and blood and the wounds would not heal. He'd been flogged, among other things. Tika didn't know what to do, and Raistlin was never a very cooperative patient. He was struggling to cut wood for the house, but could barely lift the axe. I ran to him and took the axe, and he stared at me as though I were a ghost. Tika came out of the house. She didn't say a word, just came to Raistlin and compelled him to go inside. I cut the wood and carried it in, boiled water, cleaned my Shalafi's wounds properly and applied the proper herbs. He slept for two days, and I slept on a cot beside his bed. Then we rose, and began making it more comfortable for his family to die."

He fell silent, and Roltan did not speak. They looked out over the night-cloaked garden together. Somewhere deep in the woods a curlew called mournfully, followed by another distant call from even farther away.

The night around them was cool and close, the moonlight glinting off the pond and the flashing willow leaves and the tears running down Dalamar's white cheeks.

Finally Roltan broke the stillness.

"What you did was very brave, Elf. It was more than that, in fact. If your fellow countrymen had any decency at all, they would have allowed you to return to your home for the goodness that hides within your heart. You and your Shalafi were wasted in Krynn. Here, you will be properly respected and treated well."

"Will you help my Shalafi resurrect his family?"

"I will do what I can, though it may well invoke the wrath of the gods."

"He may be mad, you know."

"Raistlin? Yes, I have no doubt that he is, to an extent. But I will still assist him. You, Dalamar, for your part I would have you help him to heal. His heart has been bruised, his pride shattered, his whole life a study in suffering. You are in a position to ease his turmoil. I suggest that you do this."

Dalamar nodded slowly, hope rising in his heart.

"I will never abandon him, Lord Roltan. Never."

The necromancer stood up.

"I know that you have a great dislike for my kind, Dalamar. If it is any consolation to you, I only embraced the teachings of the discipline to help the mortals around me escape their condition. We're not all bad."

"I have heard that you are a twin, and that your brother possesses great power as well..."

Was it a trick of the light, or did Roltan's eyes suddenly flash dangerously? Dalamar drew back almost imperceptibly, his hand going to his side to grasp a dagger hilt that wasn't there.

But the moment passed, and Roltan smiled tiredly.

"My brother is not like me." he said simply, and turned away.

When Dalamar let himself back into the laboratory, he was relieved to see that Raistlin was fast asleep. The mage lay sprawled across the wide bed, a fold of the goose-down comforter haphazardly pulled across his chest with one gold hand. A single candle still sputtered in its silver holder, and Dalamar limped over to light a few more. He sat down at the table.

The wine bottle was empty, but there was still half a glass before him. He picked it up, inhaling the stringent fruitiness of the foreign libation.

"This is exhausting." he murmured.

"Poor Elf, so tired and so in pain." purred Aegis, padding out from beneath the bed. Her slim cat's body elongated languidly, stretching up into the visual delight that was her human form. She sat down beside him, the heat of her closeness distracting.

"I had thought you were out hunting, Lady." Dalamar said softly, watching the way the candlelight made shadows play across the woman's feline features.

"And who says that I am not?" she asked silkily.

"I would make very poor prey tonight, I'm afraid."

"Yes, you do rather look all in, as it were. Can I interest you in a very long nap? They seem to make absolutely everything better."

"Spoken like a true cat. Will I have to curl up on the foot of the bed?"

"Certainly not, precious Elf. The divan is more than adequate. And I shall be there to keep you warm."

Dalamar eyed her, a stirring of interest making his stomach tingle. She was definitely enchanting, but he was far too exhausted to properly return her advances this evening. He flashed her a tired smile.

"Take me to bed, Lady. But try not to expect too much. I've had rather a rough week."

Aegis stood up, taking his hand in hers and pulling him to his feet. She led him over to the luxuriant couch, already spread with a variety of soft blankets. He did not resist as she gently undressed him and helped him to lie down on the cool satin. Aegis turned away to blow out the candles, and there was darkness.

He felt her approach him, the blankets drawn back and a slim body pressing next to his, only to be replaced in a matter of moments with a warm little lump of fur.

"I wouldn't dream of claiming weakened prey." she growled next to his ear, and nuzzled the side of his head with her small dry nose. Dalamar scratched her head sleepily, closing his eyes.

"I have no doubt that I will present you with an adequate challenge after a bit of rest." he whispered, feeling himself drifting off. The last thing he thought of before falling asleep was the sound of the servants bathing his Shalafi, and he smiled at the memory of the arch-mage's discomfiture.

Roltan waited a decent interval before re-entering the lab, his mind miles away. The conversation he'd had with Dalamar troubled him deeply. It was the thought of defying the gods that caused a small stab of worry in his chest, and nothing beyond that.

"I really had thought that the days of trouble would be over." he mused aloud. His silver eyes flicked to the rows upon rows of potion ingredients and medicinal unguents. There sat a jar of leaves from the Silverthorne bush, the rarest herb in all the land. It was vital in the reanimation of a body, having exceptional powers to recirculate and oxygenate the bloodstream. In a little green bottle there was a small measure of water from the Moon Pool on Aeshalon, a sacred spring that was rumored to be the birthplace of the Gods themselves. It could pull the soul back into the body, however long the two entities had been apart. Roltan sat down on a wine-colored velvet settee, looking at his hands. These hands were so capable, so experienced. They'd held newborn babes and beating hearts, dying children, wounded Dracs, sleeping cats and giggling faeries. His hands had been used, throughout his long life, primarily to heal.

His brother's had been used to hurt.

Roltan leaned back with a sigh, closing his bright eyes.

Bringing back the contents of even a single family from some other realm was a vastly difficult undertaking, and would undoubtedly disturb the Gods beyond understanding.

But for Raistlin, the strange feverish arch-mage from Krynn, he was willing to make the attempt.


	8. Decisions

Decisions

The resurrection of a corpse was virtually impossible for the average mage, no matter how impressive his abilities or how newly dead his subject was.

Roltan sat attentively at one end of the long table, writing down every word that his mages uttered on a paper tablet.

"Tika and Caramon should be first, they've been buried the least amount of time." Dalamar was saying.

"And we ought to find Kitiara."

"Ah...yes, definitely, Shalafi."

"Tanis?"

"I would not be averse to that."

"What about Sturm?" Raistlin asked. There was a moment of silence before both mages burst into laughter. Roltan's pen hovered over the last line hesitantly.

"So...no on this Sturm fellow?"

Dalamar smiled, shaking his head.

"I think my Shalafi would rather prefer you allowed some of the deceased to remain so."

"As interesting as it would be..." Raistlin interjected.

"I think we'll leave the bastard in his grave." Dalamar finished.

Roltan set the pen down and picked up a satchel that lay on the table beside him. It clinked and shifted as he handed it to Dalamar.

"These are sample cases. In order to proceed with this you must bring me organic matter from each of the candidates for resurrection."

There was a moment of complete silence while those words sunk in. Finally Raistlin cleared his throat.

"You want us to desecrate the corpses of our fallen companions?"

"If you would prefer it, perhaps you could bring back the entire body of each person, carry it back here through goodness knows what sort of danger, surrounded by the smell and the feel of rotting flesh. Skin splits when it decomposes. Did you know? And the ichor that comes out is black and highly aromatic. I dare say you would find the process more mentally scarring than the experience of watching them die to begin with. It is much cleaner to take a small tissue sample, put it into the glass vial, mark the name on the outside, and hop back here before tea-time. Hmm?"

An awkward pause greeted these words, and Dalamar picked up the bag.

"I shall do it, Shalafi. You should rest here, under the supervision of Lord Roltan, until you are fully healed. I remember well enough where your brother and his wife are buried. I will go."

"Dalamar..."

"No, my Shalafi. Please, I beg this of you." Dalamar seldom interrupted his master, so great was his respect for the powerful arch-mage, but this time he was vehement. Raistlin was finally within reach of a cure for the vile ailment that had threatened him from the day of his Test. He, Dalamar, was unwilling to risk the health of one he so loved simply to take him grave-robbing.

Roltan seemed at once to understand this, and turned swiftly to a large bookshelf set into the wall. He took down a huge, frayed old tome that fairly crackled with power and laid it on the table in front of Raistlin.

"I could rather use a bit of help cataloguing my spell books and such, if you would be so generous as to aide me, my friend."

The tactic worked beautifully. Raistlin's eyes lit up at the sight of the book, and with a trembling hand he touched the cover.

"Perhaps," he whispered faintly, "I could remain behind for a few days."

Dalamar looked to Roltan with profound gratitude, and the necromancer smiled back. Something wordless and comfortable passed between them, an understanding of sorts. Dalamar glanced down as something soft and warm slid past his leg, and a moment later Aegis was rising into sensual beauty beside him. She brushed suggestively against his hip as she moved to stand closer to her master, twining her long fingers through his hair.

"I love you." she purred, and Roltan looked down at the gorgeous creature pressed to his chest and did something that Dalamar found almost unbearably amusing.

He scratched her lovingly behind her right ear and kissed her forehead, no more aroused than he would have been had she remained in her cat form.

"I hope tonight is a night of fat and lazy squirrels, little one."

"Yes, master. If I catch more than one, I shall bring it to you."

"Oh please, not again. You know how I feel about poor little dead animals. I will have to drop everything and resurrect the beast before I will be able to relax again."

Dalamar wondered how many times Aegis had caught and killed the same squirrels, and whether the rodents would somehow learn from their repeated mistakes and steer clear of the area.

Roltan picked up the list and handed it to Dalamar.

"You will find that the other denizens of this castle will be more than happy to outfit you for your journey, and a great deal better than you were before, I should think."

"Other denizens?"

"Yes, Dalamar. This castle is full of Draconians."

"I remember you mentioning them. Will you elaborate a bit?"

"The Draconians of this place are not like those you left behind. These are larger, quicker, more intelligent, more beautiful than what you have become accustomed to fighting. It is true, they were created from Dragon eggs originally as your Krynn Dracs were, but there the similarity ends. These can breed amongst themselves with no regard to color, producing fantastic variations. They have arranged themselves into guilds, each guild embracing a different skill. Felichette, the pilots. Vrik-Tai, the berserkers, also called Black Squadron. Delesetti, the science corps. Kendrikan, the front line. Umaron, the mages. And over them all the Tendali, the officers' guild, where some of the most brilliant tacticians in the universe meet and lay plans. The Draconians are led by Lord Valankar, the Gold One, the Lord of the Morning. He is the God of Chaos."

"Our Chaos desired only destruction, it seemed to me."

"This is no pathetic under-god with a superiority complex, Dalamar. This is one of the Three. He does not desire to bring you harm. He is...complicated. Yes. Complicated, but not lethal to either of you."

Raistlin put a hand to his brow, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Draconians, Chaos, death that isn't permanent. A cat that is not a cat. This new life we are embarking upon is more confusing than what we have left behind, but I am eager to learn more. Introduce us to these creatures, Master Mettamoon. We are ready."

After such a comment, what could Dalamar do but nod? And Roltan smiled broadly, sharp white teeth gleaming.

"These Dracs are my friends. In time, I think you will view them as such also."

"We will see." Dalamar muttered. Raistlin glanced over sharply as the door opened, but it was only Aegis. She held a tray of food in her hands, and there was a happy swish to her walk.

"Did you catch, perhaps, a squirrel or two my dear?" Roltan asked, taking the tray from her and setting it before his guests. Both men's eyes immediately turned with suspicion to the covered soup tureen before them.

"No, not this evening."

The mages sighed in barely-perceptible relief and dug in. Aegis maliciously waited until their mouths were full to purr up at Roltan, "I caught a few bats, though."

"Gah!" Dalamar pushed the bowl away, wiping at his mouth with a white linen napkin. Raistlin, however, continued to chew. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then swallowed.

"Superb, cat. You were able to make a bat taste like lamb. I am undone by your skill."

Roltan laughed aloud and gave Aegis an extra hug, then sat down and pulled out a bottle of what was unmistakably blood. He took a delicate sip.

This was quite enough for Dalamar.

"I think I ought to ready myself to depart. Thank you for the...the meal. Shalafi, if I might have a word?"

Raistlin got to his feet, still weak from the effects of his experiences, and followed Dalamar to their host's bedroom.

The dark elf wasted no time.

"Shalafi, I would very much like you to promise me something."

Raistlin, surprised at the audacity of the request, merely nodded his head, his hair falling into his eyes.

Dalamar reached out and brushed a silken tendril of moon-colored hair away from his Master's forehead before he could stop himself. The gentleness of the gesture startled both of them, and Dalamar suddenly drew his hand back as though stung.

Raistlin caught him by the wrist, fire lighting his eyes. But whether it was rage or warmth, Dalamar could never tell. The two emotions seemed inextricable for him.

"Your request?" Raistlin prompted.

"You must not over-exert yourself in my absence. Please try to rest."

"I make no such promises. This vampire will keep me healthy."

"You have used up what little strength reserves you had in making this journey, my Shalafi."

"I have noted your concern, Dalamar. That is all."

Dalamar, sensing that the conversation would go nowhere from this point, closed his eyes for a moment and sighed.

"Yes, Shalafi."

Raistlin stepped away from him then, and turned to go back into the warmth and light of the common room, where Roltan waited dark as shade with his power and his books and his spells and everything else that Raistlin had ever wanted.

"Dalamar." Raistlin's voice was soft, softer than the elf had ever heard it before.

"Yes."

"Dalamar...here in this place I wish you to stop calling me Shalafi. There is precious little else I have to teach you."

"What do you wish me to call you?"

"Call me friend, Dalamar. I have no others. I am Raistlin. Only that."

And so saying, he was gone.


	9. The First Draconian

Thawing

Dalamar left at dawn, and he did not bid farewell.

His task was grim, and he didn't want to prolong it any further. The necromancer had given him several potent protection draughts and several more healing elixers to ward off any illness he might suffer. And in the early hours, just as Dalamar was preparing to step through the Gate, Roltan gave him a gift.

"This amulet will tell all who have power to whom it is you belong." The vampire had said softly as he fastened a heavy ruby talisman strung on a silver chain around the dark elf's neck. His smooth white fingers tickled slightly as they lifted Dalamar's hair, causing a shiver to run through his body.

Such cold skin.

It reminded him forcefully that Roltan was not alive in the common sense, indeed had never been alive at all. Like a marble statue come to life, drawing breath somehow and remembering all the secrets it had learned in those distant days before being hewn from the mountain.

Roltan adjusted the periapt and looked down into Dalamar's eyes.

"I will look after him."

Pale grey eyes, almost silver. Frost-white flesh framed by wind-combed hair of the deepest black, blacker than the places between the planets. Dalamar raised his face to stare into those impossibly noctilucent eyes, a challenge evident in his expression.

"See that you do, Master Mettamoon. He is dear to me."

"It pains you to say that."

"To admit it, yes. But there is no pain in the devotion. My Shal...that is, Raistlin merits such loyalty. He is very great."

Roltan sat down on the stone bench, somehow more approachable without his imposing height, and gazed out over the courtyard.

"I wept for him the first night. For you both. Do you know how long it has been since I wept? Planets have been born and died. But your plight touches my soul. I will do all that is in my power to ensure that you and your master are safe and allowed to study as you have always wished. The quest for knowledge and power should not be ridiculed. There is no evil in either one of you."

Dalamar harshed a laugh and sat down next to the necromancer.

"Most would disagree with you."

"Most have not seen true evil."

"And you have?"

Roltan said nothing. He reached up and opened the front of his robes with his left hand, and drawing them away from his chest he displayed a horrific scar that ran from his right breast down toward his left side and beyond. Dalamar, who had seen and even caused countless wounds before, some more gruesome than this in severity and size, nevertheless found himself repulsed beyond description. The sight of that smooth, perfect white flesh marred by such brutality seemed as nauseating as a drunkard urinating on the floor of a cathedral. He stared at the grisly wound for long moments, until at last Roltan fastened his robe again and turned back to the lake.

"What happened?" Dalamar asked, his voice hushed.

"My brother," Roltan explained gently, "Cut out my soul."

Whatever Dalamar had been expecting him to say, it was most certainly not this. He tried to speak, to ask how such a preposterous thing had come to pass, but his words died on his tongue.

Finally, he managed to speak.

"Your soul...but you said it belonged to Law?"

"So it does, wherever it may be."

"Why did your brother do this?"

"Power, of course. My soul was my link to the only possibility of rest, for me a simple thing and very much appreciated. To my brother it was a way to engorge his own spirit with even greater potential to hold power. Should I be destroyed this day, there would be no peace on the other side. I would simply cease to be, and no spell in any language could ever bring me back. Even the Gods would be powerless. This life is all there is for me. Afterwards, all is finished."

In a flash, Dalamar understood.

"And so you learned..."

"Yes. I learned to protect the souls of others. I learneto heal the sick and the dying, even the dead. Their souls are all the more precious to me because I have none of my own. Like a barren woman who works as a midwife, I am most drawn to that which I will never have. I learned to live in mercy. For at the end, the only comfort I will receive is the knowledge that I brought solace to all I could. It will be enough."

After a moment, Roltan rose to his feet again.

"The morning draws near. You, my young friend, must find your path. Do not fear the Abyss. The denizens of that realm, if any are left alive, will give that amulet a wide berth. It contains among other ingredients a measure of my blood. The scent and feel of Mettamoon will send all but the most reckless running in the opposite direction. Keep it with you."

"Many thanks."

"When you are ready to return, you have only to retrace your steps. This Gate I will shift to the laboratory for ease of movement. You may come and go as you like."

Dalamar bowed once to him, still shaken by what he had seen beneath those robes, and shouldered his pack.

"I will return when I can, Master Mettamoon."

Roltan smiled benevolently and waved him away.

"Yes, I know you will. Good journey."

Dalamar stepped into the Gate and left the world, left the sprinkled stars and the soft breeze and the sweet scent of jasmine behind. Before him, the sky over the Abyss stretched overhead, the color of blood beneath an old scar that had never healed.

Roltan stepped into his sitting room, where Raistlin sat sleeping in a forest-colored armchair with a book open on his chest. A sudden pang of compassion moved the tall vampire to lean over and sweep his cloak from his shoulders, draping it securely over the drowsy form of the frail young mage. Roltan tucked him in well, even his bandaged feet, and stepped into his bedroom to change clothing.

He stripped off the long black robe and stood before the long mirror next to the bath a moment clad only in loose linen pants of softest green. He'd never found himself to be particularily remarkable. Nearly seven feet in height, but fairly average for a vampire. His hair was heavy and thick, silken and tumbled as a horse's mane. The white muscles of his chest were marred by the terrible scar, the evidence of his spiritual autopsy. Wrapped around the gleaming flesh of his upper left arm there was a hammered silver cuff containing a single triangular emerald set into its surface. It was the only piece of ornament that he never removed, and never spoke of.

Roltan hummed a little, turned on the taps for the water, and neatly piled the rest of his clothing on the small table next to the bathtub. He was just easing into the warm water with a contented sigh when the outer door to the laboratory burst open and a volley of curses stomped in, followed by a Draconian.

"Oh damn it..." Roltan moaned, and reached forward to pull the drain plug, "General Fenric."

Raistlin was rudely awakened by a string of the foulest language he had ever heard, growled out in some dragonish dialect that he only half understood. But, judging by the severity of the words, perhaps it was not at all a bad thing that he was unable to figure out the other half.

A huge, battle-scarred, deep purple Draconian stepped into the room, one clawed hand covering the bleeding right side of his face, the other hand clutching a glass jar which contained, hideously and unmistakably, an eye.

Roltan had been right.

These things were nothing like the Dracs of Krynn. They were bigger, cleaner, scarier.

The creature fixed his remaining eye on the wide-eyed mage in the chair before him.

"Where's the necromancer?" he asked, his voice deep and growlish and utterly inhuman.

"I have no idea." Raistlin returned with forced calm. He disentangled himself from Roltan's cloak and struggled to his feet, mentally sizing up the beast with his eyes. "Perhaps I can be of service?"

The Drac unceremoniously thrust the grisly jar into Raistlin's hands and sat down on one of the steel worktables.

"Yeah. Put that back in. And be quick about it, I have to finish training those first years. Little monsters. They really don't know how to swing a blade yet, but I'll soon have them well prepared. I'm Grand General Fenric. Who are you?"

Raistlin set the jar down and began to gather what he needed for the surgery, finding a great deal more medical supplies than he had ever seen in his life stacked neatly here and there. He took a large stack of bandages, ointments, threaded needles, and other such paraphernalia over to the small bench next to the table and opened the jar.

"I am called Raistlin. It is a distinct oddity to meet you, General. I have never seen one of your kind before."

Fenric growled noncommittally and dropped his hand from his eye, revealing a deep cut and a tragically empty socket, dangling optic nerves like a messy pasta dish across his scaly cheek. Raistlin had never seen such a thing before. He reached up and gently probed the wound, nonplussed.

"Here, I will get that." Roltan said softly, coming into the room. He took the eye from its jar and held it in one hand while he fished about for some gauze with the other. His hands moved quicker than sight as he began to clean up the mess. "I see you've met Raistlin. He will be my new assistant."

"Good enough. What can he do?"

"I am well versed in many aspects of mage craft and have read - " Raistlin began, but Fenric cut him off with one word.

"Krynn."

Raistlin blinked, nonplussed. "What?"

"I said Krynn. Your accent. It's Krynnian. I was there a while back, in my human form, taking stock of the place. Oh, about a hundred years or so. You look like you've seen the wrong end of a pretty bad spell there. Are you going to be alright?"

"He'll pull through, I dare say," Roltan answered, fitting the eye back into its socket and thumbing it in with a practiced touch, "As will you, you big idiot. At least you saved the eye this time. It's such a bother to keep growing new ones."

"Call me an idiot again and I'll feed you your guts, Roltan." Fenric growled good-naturedly, and blinked a few times to clear his vision. He rose to his feet and looked down at the two mages, his blood-stained face and delicate framework of ritual scars making him look a thousand times more savage than anything Raistlin had ever seen.

"Welcome to Draconia. Let me know if there's anything I can do for you."

"Many thanks, General Fenric." Raistlin suddenly stopped, his eyes widening. Roltan was one thing, his unchanging nature could be explained, but this?

"You're not rotting!"

Fenric's face broke into a grin. "Thanks."

"No! No, you don't understand! Roltan, my eyes...he's not rotting. And the Elvish servants weren't either! Nor your cat!"

Roltan laid a hand on his arm.

"I know, my friend. My touch extends to all who surround me. You will not see yourself dying any longer either."

Raistlin laughed, something that he very rarely did in true joy. He looked back to the beast before him, who watched the proceedings with some amusement.

"I am terribly glad that you're not rotting, General Fenric."

"Yeah," agreed the Draconian General, picking up his empty jar and heading back to the door of the lab, " Me too."


	10. A Resurrection

A Resurrection

Raistlin did not have to wait long to witness the very thing he had been hoping to see since his arrival. A mere two hours after the abrupt departure of General Fenric, the door to the lab was opened yet again, this time by a quartet of Elvish servants carrying between them a huge covered litter. Roltan, who had been quietly organizing a corner of the room for Raistlin's use, looked up just in time to see a large, wet, hairy body being laid carefully across one of his spotless steel work tables.

"Master," a woman, following behind the sad little party, looked up at the vampire beseechingly, "Please help me."

"What has happened, Carina?"

"My husband - " she trailed off, breaking into fresh tears. Roltan beckoned to Raistlin, and the younger mage joined him immediately.

"Fear not, Carina, I will soon have him right as rain. This is Raistlin, my assistant. He will be helping me."

Raistlin was hardly listening. His eyes were riveted on the furry mound that lay still on the table. He had never seen such a thing before in all his years, and his first thought was that it must be some kind of animal.

But the woman, the slim little human woman with the green eyes, had said 'husband'.

He moved closer cautiously, pulling back the water-soaked white sheet a little as Roltan comforted the grieving woman quietly behind him. The Elves were gathered near the door, speaking in hushed tones.

Raistlin stared.

The thing, the hairy husband of that lovely young lady, was a monster. A bear's face and thick neck rose from huge human-like shoulders, the hands below his muscled wrists tipped with curved ursine claws. Whatever spell had gone wrong to cause such a potent mutation must have been very powerful indeed.

He let out his breath abruptly, explosively, and jumped a little at the sound. He hadn't realized he'd been holding it in.

"My God, Roltan. What happened to him?" he asked, dazed. The vampire helped Carina to sit down in the same green chair his assistant had just vacated and came to stand on the other side of the table, looking down with a sad expression in his eyes.

"It's awful, I know."

"But how did this horror occur?"

"He's not a very strong swimmer. Poor fellow."

"No mage would be, if they were daring enough to cast such spells in the water!"

"Oh no, no he wouldn't do that. Artemin doesn't know any spells."

Raistlin prodded the slightly opened jaws gingerly with his finger, feeling the razor-sharp teeth within.

"Meddling with an artifact then, do you think?"

Roltan, with an almost frightening effortlessness, shifted the massive creature into a more prone position, straightening its limbs with one hand and reaching for his medical cart with the other.

"He really can't abide magic. No, I think it was just a simple case of drowning."

Dead silence. Raistlin looked slowly from the beast on the table to the weeping woman, now being comforted by several of the Elves. He looked back at Artemin again. Then back to Carina.

His eyes widened with comprehension, and he stared for a long moment at the pattern of sunlight skittering across the floor. A little breeze lifted the hair on his neck, and he smiled slightly.

"This is his natural form." he said. Roltan, intent on his duties, merely nodded distractedly.

"And that is her natural form."

"Yes. Sindarian Bear male and human female. Reproductively a bit incompatible, but nothing I couldn't overcome. They have a daughter."

Raistlin stifled a small laugh. Of course they did, and why not? He felt giddy, overjoyed.

"He drowned. There was no spell. He drowned and they brought him to you to resurrect."

Something in his voice caused Roltan to look up sharply, some little bubble of mirth or amusement.

"They are in love, Raistlin." he explained patiently, but Raistlin's face didn't change with the gentle admonishment. Instead, his smile grew a bit wider. He patted the massive chest of the bear fondly.

"What in the name of Law are you grinning at?" Roltan whispered, glancing behind him to make sure that the grieving widow was not aware of his assistant's humorous take on the situation.

Raistlin covered his mouth with one hand, trying to hide the smile, and leaned forward to whisper back "If such things can happen here, if such men can marry such women, then..."

"Then what?"

"Then, my friend, even one such as I may find a wife."

Roltan found himself suddenly smiling as well.

"Rather. Perhaps if you can refrain from complimenting a lady on her powers of not rotting, you might have a slim chance, my friend."

Raistlin tried to suppress a laugh and ended up snorting, which set Roltan off. He covered his mirth as best he could with a coughing fit, which caused Raistlin to snort again. The two mages, shaking with barely contained laughter, began to work on the poor bear while his weeping wife waited hopefully behind them.

Six hours and ten minutes.

That's all the time it took.

Six hours and ten minutes, and life was returned to the dead. Raistlin wiped at the sweat trickling down his forehead and slumped into an armchair. He was completely spent.

"Try to follow the light with only your eyes, Artemin." Roltan was saying softly to the Sindarian. He held a small gleaming stone in front of the bear's glazed brown eyes, moving it slowly back and forth. Outwardly the creature seemed to be rather well, considering the fact that he'd been technically dead just a few hours before. Raistlin still couldn't get over that, it was just too much to take in. But Roltan, with his quiet voice and steady hands, had gently coaxed the cavorting soul back into its former body with all the patience of a father bringing his wayward child home. The wife, for her part, was overjoyed.

She stood nearby Raistlin's elbow, patting him excitedly as she talked.

"I can't even begin to tell you how grateful we both are..."

"It was mostly Master Mettamoon, you know."

"Our daughter would have been heartbroken if her father hadn't come home! And I just don't know what I would have done..."

"Yes, yes. Glad to be of help. I just handed him sponges, though."

"The way you brought him back like that, just called to him and he opened his eyes..."

"Just the sponges, my lady."

"Oh thank you!" And here she actually bent down and pressed a kiss to his cheek, silencing his protests. If he hadn't been so exhausted, Raistlin would have been very much more gratified at the contact. But as it was, he was too tired to even rise to his feet again, and so he simply favored the woman with a wan smile.

Six hours and ten minutes.

_Six hours and ten minutes._

Raistlin's mind was a whirl of thoughts, mentally adding up the time it would take to bring his family back. He hoped with all of his heart that Dalamar was having some luck in finding them.


	11. The Death of Death

The Death of Death

Dalamar had no trouble navigating the Abyss this time. Nothing stirred, and apart from a plethora of huge wolf-like tracks that ran back and forth near the places they'd been, he could detect no sign of life.

The tracks disturbed him. He'd not appreciated before how close to death they both had been, but seeing the enormous footprints in the dusty earth all around the portal, the cave...the Hounds had been close indeed to catching them.

He did not pause to think any further, instead electing to move swiftly across the dead landscape without thought to cover or stealth.

His was a grim, awful task, but he tried not to think of that either.

In his memory, he found a kind of refuge.

Raistlin had been inside, boiling water to make oatmeal for his brother and sister-in-law, and Dalamar was taking a short rest with Caramon on the back porch. He recalled keenly the creak of the sturdy wooden rocking chairs and the smell of the pear blossoms, the crickets in a choir of unseen insectoid joy all along the banks of the mossy cool stream. It was a place of simple beauty, something that he had not experienced in quite a long time.

In the ruby-lemon light from the sunset, Caramon turned to look at him. His sores were not as pronounced yet, and there was still the glow of health around him. But Dalamar had trouble meeting his eyes. He knew that it was only a matter of time, and that knowledge put a painful obstruction of sorts somewhere south of his throat.

"You don't say much, Mr. Dalamar." Caramon said softly. He was smiling, happy in the evening with his wife resting clean and comfortable in the bedroom and his brother quietly making dinner behind him in the kitchen. It was all he had ever wanted. Dalamar suddenly found himself envying Caramon's ignorance of his own fate, his simple desires in life.

"There is very little to say. And simply 'Dalamar' is sufficient."

"You know, I haven't thanked you yet for what you're doing for us."

"It is for your brother."

Caramon laughed easily.

"Yeah, I guess so. But it's still kind of you. All the woodcutting and the heavy lifting and everything...well, I guess I just wanted to say thanks. When we get better, I'll come on over to your place and cut some wood for you."

Dalamar hated this. It was like being skinned alive, this feeling of helpless rage and agony. But why did he care? He chanced a look at Caramon.

"How are you feeling?"

"Pretty much same as yesterday, but a little weaker. Must be some kind of bad flu. I hope I'll be better by the time spring comes. I would really like to go to the carnival."

"To the..." Dalamar shut his eyes, feeling a wave of nausea rise inside of him. It was just too vicious, too cruel, too pathetic to even begin to comprehend. And it was happening all over Krynn.

Something died a little inside him. But at the same time, miraculously, something began to stir to life. It was a warm feeling, very alien and unpleasant. He had reached over and taken the big man's hand briefly in his own.

"When you are...better. When you are better I would like for you to chop wood for my fire. Thank you."

Caramon brightened visibly, and they sat together until Raistlin called them in to eat and the sun went down and there was another day gone. One of only twenty-six that Caramon had left.

Dalamar was sweating, but whether from the memories or from the heat he did not know. By the rotting gods it was hot. Like a furnace. Even the light seemed to be baking.

He removed his outer cloak and wiped a trickle of salty moisture from his eyes.

Wait.

Hot? In the Abyss? It was never hot here. The air was supposed to feel stifling, heavy, neutral, but no breeze or change in temperature ever brought the relief of sensation to the unhappy inhabitants. But now the hot wind moved his robes and dried the sweat on his arms. He looked to what might pass for west in the world above with unerring elvish accuracy.

What he saw there made his blood run cold.

The Abyss was burning.

Roltan deftly shaved the thorns from an alabaster-white rose and added the stem to the six others already gracing the jade vase before him. He fluffed the flowers, looking at them with a critical eye.

"That is quite possibly the least imaginative arrangement I have ever seen. You ought to add a few red ones for depth." Raistlin offered, and felt foolish a moment later for uttering such a sentiment. It was the sort of thing he never would have dreamed of saying a few years ago. Roltan fished around for a bit in the pile of planty delights beside him and came up with a few red roses. He began shucking them, humming tunelessly to himself.

It was ten o'clock in the morning on a stormy, miserable day and the two mages were passing time inside together. Roltan busied himself with one of the few hobbies he had not yet mastered and Raistlin was deliriously copying every spell he could find into the fresh new leather-bound mage books that he'd been given that morning. He could not believe the profundity of some of these spells, really. Carefully written in a clean, neat hand on crisp sheets of paper, each one was a work of genius. It took his breath away, sending him into a coughing fit that brought tears to his eyes. Roltan paused in his flower arranging and trained a keen gray eye on the doubled-over mage across the room.

"Ah. Ah yes, your cough. I really am a bit absent-minded. And you ought to have reminded me, you know. Can you tell me when the symptoms first arrived?"

"Wayreth," Raistlin coughed once more, then seemed to recover slightly. He took a sip of the fragrant liquid that Roltan had brewed for him that first night, which he kept now in a small bottle always within reach, "The day of my Test at the Tower of Wayreth. I think...I think there may be something 'in' me. Maybe someone."

He was embarrassed to relate the truth, the whole horror of Fistandantilus and the viciousness of the Test itself. Roltan came to kneel on the floor at his feet, reaching up to feel his forehead.

"Is there a fever when the coughing fits strike?" he asked. Raistlin shook his head.

"Never. But sometimes they come when I am in a state of high excitement."

"I should like a bit of your blood."

Raistlin had to force himself not to recoil.

"Not like that!" Roltan hastened to add, seeing the look that came into his apprentice's face, "I mean a small drop, to test for this illness. I don't want to treat you for something you do not have. Mage-sickness isn't like a bacterial infection you know. There are things that penicillin just won't touch."

"Penny-what?" Raistlin asked, relaxing just slightly. He was terribly fond of hearing about new cures for old maladies. Roltan waved his question away.

"Another time, my friend. Your hand?"

Raistlin wordlessly held out an elegant golden hand for the necromancer to take, and when Roltan gently pricked his finger and siphoned off a small amount of blood with a glass pipette he did not flinch.

"You say 'mage-sickness' like one who is familiar with an affliction such as mine. Have you seen this before?"

Roltan said nothing, his guileless eyes trained on the microscope he now bent over. It was a startlingly complex device, all shiny metal and glass, covered in more knobs and dials than anything Raistlin had ever seen outside of a gnome's workshop.

"I say, this is a bit off. Do you know your blood cells are being destroyed by something ethereal?"

"If by 'know' you mean 'experiencing vast amounts of pain as a result of', then yes. I know."

"I've seen this before, in Dreamspawn victims. Dreamspawn are nasty creatures that occupy the black places you sometimes see beyond the boundaries of a Gate spell. If one of them attacks you, its darkness can swallow up all of the organic matter in you within a matter of years. What's left over isn't worth carrying home to mother in a thimble."

"Your bedside manner is impeccable."

"I hear it's excruciatingly painful," Roltan continued as if he hadn't heard, "But it doesn't look as though you're a Dreamspawn victim. This is subtler, almost as if someone were directing the destruction."

"Fistandantilus."

"A name I have heard of before. Not a very nice fellow, was he? But I though he had died. Still, I do realize that death doesn't quite have the permanence that we might wish it did sometimes. I can stop this for you. It might sting a bit, but you'll breathe a lot easier when it's over and all those mental blocks will be removed. I daresay you've been held back these long years from your true potential. A bit of pain, now, and then you'll be free."

Raistlin felt a great swell of hope suddenly in his chest. He looked at the feable light showing beneath the ragged clouds out beyond the window and away across the pond. Something big flew by across the horizon, a Drac most likely. He breathed in, held the air, tasted it, breathed out.

"I can be...something more? But I was the very best on Krynn." He stated it as a simple fact, with no hint of bragging.

"How special for you," Roltan replied kindly, patting his arm, "But yes, you can be vastly more. I think you're more talented than you realize."

"Is it possible to become more powerful than any mage who ever lived?"

Roltan laughed, digging through a tattered valise of chemicals for the ones he needed.

"Most likely," he said, turning around with a nasty-looking syringe in his hand, "As I have held that title for well beyond a billion years and am heartily ready to retire and take up flower arranging full-time."

"Where are you putting that?"

"Your arm, thigh, buttock - "

"Keep your evil needles away from my buttocks!"

"For one who has endured the torments of the Abyss, you're relatively squeamish."

Raistlin sulked for a fraction of a second, then proffered his arm and watched with irritation as Roltan administered the dose of yellowy liquid. A fire unlike any pain he had ever felt coursed through his vein, up his arm, and quickly spread through his body. Roltan watched him carefully, ready to catch him should he fall.

"The greatest..." Raistlin gasped, his knees buckling, and was grateful for Roltan's immediate strong hands on his shoulders, guiding him to the chair, "...mage...", and Roltan tilted his head back, peering into his dilated pupils, "...who ever...", his voice was full of elation, and in his mind's eye he saw his mother and his brother and his father and even damned Kitiara all cheering his name, "...lived!"

"Not if you don't settle down a bit," Roltan soothed, "Let the medicine do its work. I am killing off the parasites, my dear friend. You have played host to more than just an ill fate for quite some time by the look of it."

Raistlin shut his eyes, smiling to himself, and let the molten agony of the elixir bathe him in salvation.

Dalamar screamed. It was pulled from him like a worm is pulled from the earth, or a babe pulled from its mother. He had never seen anything so horrifying in all his days, and that was saying something. The sky itself was on fire, ablaze and burning, and how could a sky burn? It was not simply a fire burning 'against' the sky or between him and the sky. The clouds were not on fire. Even that he could have borne, because at least a cloud was a thing and not simply a perception of a boundary where there was none. The molecules of the sky itself, that vast featureless expanse that loomed over all the Abyss and made the world gray and forgetful, the molecules were burning burning burning. It was an unholy sight, this eating up of the heavens. Dalamar wished he had died rather than see it. A roar went up from the flames, the emptiness of a blackness from his worst nightmares that lay beyond the sky and was revealed through the inferno. He forced his buckling legs to move. MOVE! Robes flying, hair flying, satchel clinking madly, tears streaming down his white cheeks as he turned away from the horror and ran like a gazelle toward the far gate. The Abyss, that plane of utter damnation and rage and torment and - oh gods help him - 'familiarity', was ablaze and dying just as all those who made the world safe or unsafe, beautiful or ugly, strange or comforting had died. Could Roltan sing the soul of hell back to its body? Dalamar ran as he had seldom been called upon to run before, and did not stop until his hitching breaths came up bloody.

There.

He fell into the circle of stones, weeping and horrified, and gasped out the words to open the portal from one dead world into the next.

The sky burned fitfully behind him, the smoke stinging his eyes, and he tumbled through into the light of Krynn with the death of death branded on his heart.

Time to find the bodies.


End file.
